Revelations at Outwood Station
by MorganAW
Summary: During the fateful encounter at the Outwood station, Mr. Thornton witnesses the altercation between Frederick Hale and Leonards. The sight of Miss Hale's distress spurs him to intervene. *Chapter 8 and Epilogue added 1/12
1. Chapter 1

**Licensing Note:** Based on Characters and story lines from _North and South_ by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell. All original content and plot for _Revelations at Outwood Station_ is released under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International license by Morgan A. Wyndham. Also published on Archive of Our Own by Morgan AW.

 **Chapter 1: Outwood Station**

John Thornton wearily rode his horse down the nearly deserted street. One of his suppliers had mistakenly sent a shipment of raw cotton to the Outwood station rather than the Milton station. As it was _his_ name on the cargo, the stationmaster was refusing to release the shipment into his overseer's care without Thornton's signature. He could have gone in the morning, indeed arrangements to transport the shipment to Marlborough Mills wouldn't be possible until the following day. However, the prospect of a ride to the station had sounded more appealing than returning to the house and the sole company of his mother. Nonetheless, it was just another dreary task to end his dreary day in his dreary life. Excursions like this aside, his life proceeded as predictably and monotonously as the looms in his warehouses. Every day he went to the mill, performed the same tasks, saw the same people, the same routines he had followed for years. None of it gave him any pleasure anymore.

He hadn't realized just how much the presence of the Hale family had changed his life until he was forced to remove himself from their company. It began with his lessons from Mr. Hale. For the first time since his father's death he had someone that he could hold meaningful conversations with on the classics, philosophy, morality – all subjects that were lost on his Milton peers. Then there was Margaret – elegant, regal, beautiful, and so very different than all of the other women in his world. She somehow managed to be neither stern like his mother, nor flighty like his sister. She was judgmental and fierce, but never cold or mercenary like the other young ladies in Milton. She was intelligent and witty, even in her reproofs of him. He always enjoyed his lessons with her father, but he had lived for the days she would sit in with them. On those evenings, he could bask in her beauty, entranced by the tempting domesticity of her preparing his tea. She would occasionally contribute to their discussions in her quiet even tones with the confidence of a well-educated lady.

For all of his infatuation, he had never been blind to her dislike of him. Nonetheless, he could not help but fall in love with her. He had scarcely admitted his feelings to himself because he was sure she would never see him as a suitor. The riot had finally forced him to confront the depth of his emotions. She had saved his life. She had boldly shielded him from the wrath of the strikers heedless to her own danger. John had struggled to maintain his habitual detached composure as he met with his brother magistrates, saw to the needs of the Irish hands, and dealt with the aftermath of the riot. His thoughts kept returning to the dead weight of Margaret in his arms, the fear that she could have died. Indeed, in those hours he did not know how she fared as he had been obliged to leave before she awoke. It was in those agonizing hours that he realized he must brave her rejection and ask her to marry him.

He had thought that nothing could be as painful as looking down on her cold, white, lifeless face. The next day he realized how wrong he was. Her flushed, angry face with her piercing eyes and her upraised eyebrow as she told him how much she despised him was far worse. Although he had expected her rejection he had, for the span of an evening, dared to hope. Nothing could have prepared him for the strength of her hatred. He had offered her his heart and she had very nearly ripped it out of his chest. The constant dull ache reminded him that it was still there, though battered and bruised it still beat and beat for her. He was helplessly, hopelessly in love still and saw no end in sight.

It had been nearly two months since that fateful morning. She haunted his thoughts and his dreams, but he saw little of her in reality. He had used the end of the strike as an excuse to cancel most of his lessons with Mr. Hale. He feared that he would be unable to temper his reaction to her presence and he was unwilling to force his unwanted presence on her. It was done for the best and yet it had drained all of the joy from his life. His work at the mill, his mother's pride, Fanny's delight in small gifts, his respected role in the community: these aspects of his life had all once given him a sense of purpose but now his life seemed bleak and aimless.

Perhaps he ought to resume his regular visits to Mr. Hale, the poor man could use a friend after losing the love of his life. His heart beat slightly faster as he reasoned to himself that even brief glimpses of Margaret would ease his despair. The smallest morsel of food is precious to a starving man. For all his pain, he longed to see the author of it. Even if stolen glances paled in comparison to the life he wished to share with Margaret, any contact would be better than his current privation.

In accordance with the cruel ironies of fate, he had just made this resolve when he had the misfortune of catching a glance at Margaret and his heart nearly stopped. Margaret Hale, love of his life, paragon of virtue, mourning daughter, was standing in a dark, secluded stall near the railway station at dusk, clasping hands with an unknown young man. Their heads were bent together as they talked and they were standing closer than propriety allowed – far closer than John had ever been to her other than on the day of the riot. He saw her start when she saw him. Their eyes met briefly and he could see the fear and shame in them. For a moment she stood frozen before she gave him a slight bow. He mechanically returned the bow before he passed their stall. His hands loosened on the reigns and his horse slowed nearly to a stop, which unfortunately allowed him to hear their conversation.

"Who is that?" Said the young man who had stolen all of his hopes for the future.

"Mr. Thornton; you saw him before, you know." Margaret replied in an unsteady voice. John desperately wracked his brain to remember when this young scoundrel would have seen him.

"Only his back." John recalled his condolence visit to Mr. Hale, when he had been denied access to any of the family. He had heard a noise from the direction of the family quarters and seen Miss. Dixon's furtive glances in that direction as she showed him out of the house. He had assumed it was Margaret trying to avoid seeing him so, in his determination not to burden her with his love, he hadn't turned to look. "He is an unprepossessing-looking fellow. What a scowl he has!"

"Something has happened to vex him," said Margaret, apologetically. "You would not have thought him unprepossessing if you had seen him with mamma." It was small comfort to know that she recognized the pain she had given him, and a balm that she could acknowledge he had some merits. That balm was, unfortunately, not soothing enough to distract him from the fact that he had just discovered Margaret in an assignation with a lover. Had he been shielded from discovery, he could have sat there for hours in the depths of agony that this realization induced in him.

As it was, he had only moments before the villain's voice broke into his thoughts. "I fancy it must be time to go and take my ticket. If I had known how dark it would be, we wouldn't have sent back the cab, Margaret." John had just enough pride left to break from his stupor and set his horse in swifter motion before he could be overtaken by the lovers.

As the station drew closer he allowed the sorrow to drift over him in waves. Again he was forced to re-examine his lowest depths of misery. He would gladly relive her passionate refusal of his proposal daily if it would wash away the revelations of the last minutes. He could bear that she didn't love him the way he loved her. He could bear her unjust sketch of his character, her anger, and her blaming him for the plight of the workers because those faults in understanding came from her ignorance of Milton ways and her honest care for the wellbeing of others. What he could not bear was the sight of her speaking intimately with another man. He was haunted by the remembrance of the handsome young man, with whom she stood in an attitude of such familiar confidence; and the remembrance shot through him like an agony, till it made him clench his hands tight in order to subdue the pain. At that late hour, so far from home! It shattered his trust – erstwhile so perfect – in Margaret's pure and exquisite maidenliness.

"Enough," he reprimanded himself as he stopped his horse in front of the station. He would turn his mind to his task. He would forget about Margaret. However she had misjudged him, he must also have been deceived in her. He had to continually repeat this to himself as he met the station master and made arrangements to have his shipment delivered in the morning.

He was still in the office filling out paper work when _she_ entered. The door to the office had been left ajar, so he could just see her toss an imperious glare over the loiterers. "One ticket to London, please," he heard her say in her soft southern accent. _To London! Good God, she can't be leaving!_ He hastily finished signing the shipment forms and brusquely bid farewell to the stationmaster. As he exited the office he saw her take her lover's arm and move toward the deserted end of the platform.

John couldn't think what to do as he hung back by the station door and observed the couple. He could not believe that Margaret was so wholly lost to propriety that she would elope so soon after her mother's death, to abandon her father in his grief. She had only purchased a single ticket. A portion of him hoped that it was for her swain who would board the train and leave, never to return. This rapidly turned to anger that any man fortunate enough to earn the love of Margaret Hale would ever willingly walk away. John would move mountains to receive even a smile from Margaret and here this young fool was abandoning her in her time of need. Furthermore, what was the young fool thinking sending Margaret into the station by herself to purchase his ticket, why that alone was enough to begin gossip about her character.

John had nearly built up enough anger to confront the cad when he noticed a porter approaching the couple with the unsteady gait of a man in his cups. Just as the train began to pull into the station, the porter roughly pushed Margaret and she cried out. All of the uncertainty of the past half hour dissipated at the sight of anyone laying violent hands on the woman he loved. He ran towards the group to aid in any way he could, cursing himself for leaving such a distance between them and cursing the passengers disembarking the train for blocking his path. As he struggled to make it to the scene, he saw the porter lunge at the lover and the two briefly fought before the lover managed to trip the porter and send him over the edge of the platform.

John was mere feet away when he heard Margaret gasp, "Run, run! The train is here. It was Leonards, was it? oh, run! I will carry your bag." And she took him by the arm to push him along with all her feeble force. A door was opened in a carriage—he jumped in; and he leant out to say, 'God bless you, Margaret!'

This heartfelt show of affection stopped John in his tracks. Before either moved the two were left alone on the platform. He noticed her gasp and hold out her hand as if to steady herself, in a moment he was at her side. "Margaret! Are you well?" This exclamation startled her and in her dizzy state she nearly over-set herself, but John took her elbow to steady her and led her to a nearby bench hidden in a small alcove. At first she could do nothing but gasp for breath. "It was such a hurry; such a sickening alarm; such a near chance. If the train had not been here at the moment..." she eventually murmured in a bit of a daze.

"Margaret," he spoke softly now, trying to break through her shock. "What is happening? Who were those men? You mentioned a name, Leonards?"

"You don't think he's seriously hurt, do you?" She asked, turning her large soft eyes on him for the first time since the fight.

"I shouldn't think so, but I can look if it would set you at ease."

"Please do, Mr. Thornton." She said, lightly grasping then releasing his hand. His hand tingled where she had touched long after he arose to look over the edge of the platform. There was nothing there but patchy grass and the discarded train tickets and other miscellaneous detritus that gathers in such spaces. He eagerly returned to Margaret and reclaimed his seat.

"He is gone. There doesn't appear to be any signs of distress, I would not worry on that account Mar... Miss. Hale." Now that the first suspense was over, he needed to regulate himself back into formalities. He needed an explanation.

She seemed to note his retreat back into civilities and turned her face away from him. "Thank you for your concern and care. I suppose I do owe you some explanations, but ..." she paused, glanced around the platform and noted that a few passengers had begun to arrive for the northbound train "... but not here. It is a long story. For now, I will tell you that the man you saw me walking with was ..." she paused and looked intently at her hands resting on her lap. John's heart beat a rapid tattoo in anticipation of her confession "... my brother Frederick."

"Brother!" he exclaimed, a weight lifting from his chest. Then regulating his tone asked, "why have I never heard of him before?"

"I cannot tell you here," she glanced around again, "it is a terrible secret." The trepidation began to creep back into his heart. She may not be in love with another man, but there was something terrible weighing on her. She was obviously in shock: her face pale, eyes wide, hands trembling. John fought the urge to draw her into his arms and tell her that everything would be alright, that he would slay all of her dragons. Cognizant that they were on a public train platform, he settled instead for taking her trembling hand in his.

"May I escort you home?" He asked tenderly. She meekly nodded her assent and allowed him to help her stand.

He hailed her a cab and would have followed her into it but she asked — in a voice closer to her habitual tone — "did you not ride here?" He laughed at his own folly. He had forgotten his surroundings and circumstances in his need to tend to Margaret.

"Aye, I suppose it would not do to leave old Nelly here overnight, she will be needed at the mill come morning. May I follow behind and call on you in Crampton?" He feared that if he did not gain her confidence tonight he never would, and he needed to know if he was to help her.

Her eyes caught those of a young man exiting the station and she straightened and said in a low tone: "I would not wish to alarm my father tonight, he will be expecting me home directly. He is so very afflicted by my mother's death, I do not wish to burden him with news of my brother's narrow escape." She paused and looked up again to see the young man had drawn closer. In a stronger voice she added, "I do hope to see you at the funeral service, you have ever been a friend to our family, especially during my mother's last illness. Perhaps you might call on my father next week?" Her words were spoken in a cool manner but her eyes plead with him to accept her terms.

Unable to say more under public scrutiny, and unable to deny Margaret anything at this moment, he merely nodded his agreement and added, "I hope to always be a friend Miss Hale, if there is anything you or your father require, please do not hesitate to send for me." His gaze lingered, begging her to trust him. She nodded and he closed the carriage door and made his way back to his mount in deep reflection.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: An Inquest?**

By Monday John was nearly mad with curiosity. He had attended the funeral service that morning, but Miss Dixon had cut him off and prevented him from approaching the mourning family. He knew that it would be bad form to call on them today. He must wait for the morrow. What possible crime or danger could lurk so near to her bother that it would cause Margaret — his strong, passionate, brave Margaret — to tremble in fear? He certainly did not appear the hardened criminal. In the eternally torturous half hour between first setting eyes on the pair and having the stranger's identity revealed as her brother, he had despaired that Frederick looked every inch the gentleman that Margaret declared John was not. No, he could acquit him of highway robbery, the man tended more towards delicate and refined than hardened. Perhaps he had fought a duel, a refined violence in a misguided attempt to protect a lady's honor.

He had been seated in his office, distracted from his work by these conjectures, when an inspector requested his presence as a magistrate. He had made it a full fifteen minutes into the incoherent deposition before he realized that the man in front of him in the infirmary was the same man he had seen push Margaret on the train platform.

He was torn, he could end the matter right now. He had the authority to prevent an inquest and any investigation into whatever the Hale family secret was. He could save her by a word, but he had sworn an oath as a magistrate. He had a duty to perform and hiding the truth in the performance of this duty would not do. With that thought, he had to trust that the provocation given by such a man as Leonards would, when excited by drinking, in all probability, be more than enough to justify any one who came forward to state the circumstances openly and without reserve. His decision made, he politely interrupted Leonards and excused himself to discuss the matter with the inspector and the surgeon.

"Gentlemen, I fear we may have a conflict of interest. I believe I witnessed the altercation in question at the Outwood Station, though his story is so nonsensical that I did not at first realize it. I will recuse myself as magistrate if you think it necessary."

"We could go fetch Hamper, but he is full five miles off," suggested the inspector wearily.

"I'm afraid that Mr. Leonards has already lost much of the coherency that had us send for you in the first place, in another hour he likely won't be fit to finish his deposition," added the surgeon.

"Perhaps you ought to finish taking down his deposition, Mr. Thornton, then you and I can bring the matter to Hamper."

"It seems for the best, then I can give my statement to Hamper and let him sort out what to do."

John finished taking down Leonards's statement, which was much of the same. The man died shortly after, his last words were a curse on the 'Cornish trick' which had, he said, made him a hundred pounds poorer than he ought to have been. John sought out the surgeon again, who confirmed that the blow or fall was not the primary cause of death.

* * *

A half hour later, he was seated in Hamper's office sipping a brandy. "I was at the Outwood station sorting out a misdirected shipment of cotton and had just exited the station when I saw Leonards shuffle drunkenly across the platform, shove a lady and lunge for her companion. The whole of the scuffle had ended in the time it took me to cross the length of the platform."

"Did you recognize either the _lady_ or her escort?" Hamper's tone indicated the type of woman he suspected to be involved in such a dispute and John fought back the roiling anger stirred by his insinuation.

"The lady was Miss Hale of Crampton, her companion was her brother who had been visiting their mother in her final illness."

"Ah, Miss Hale, I met her at your dinner did I not? Beautiful woman, she'd be a goddess if she learned her place and didn't speak on matters she knew nothing about or associate with the rabble."

John tried for an impassive look in response to this glib dismissal of Margaret's keen intellect and caring heart. In as even a tone as he could manage, he continued his story. "After the scuffle Mr. Hale boarded the train to London. Miss Hale was in some distress, so I helped her to a seat and waited with her as she collected herself. I then got her a cab and we parted ways."

"And what of Leonards?"

"I did not see where Leonards went, but I did check the ground and he was not there a few minutes after his fall. He rose of his own accord. Any actions on young Mr. Hale's part were purely defensive in nature."

"Well," Hamper began as he glanced again over the statements from Leonards and the surgeon, "despite the mad ravings of a drunkard on his deathbed, it all seems fairly straightforward. As you saw nothing terribly violent in Mr. Hale's actions, and the surgeon does not have evidence that the fight directly caused his death, I don't see any need for an inquest. Would you agree?"

"Aye, it seems that his own indulgences and impertinence were the culprits."

"Inspector?" Hamper summoned the man who waited outside the office. "There will be no inquest. Medical evidence not sufficient to justify it. Take no further steps."

"Very good, sir." The inspector made his bows to the Masters and took his leave. The matter of the investigation was at an end.

"It is a shame I didn't get a chance to _comfort_ Miss Hale myself. Dammed lucky timing for you Thornton." Hamper said with a suggestive wiggle of the eyebrow when they were once again alone.

This time John could not entirely repress his anger or his jealousy and snarled in reply: "Miss Hale is a respectable young lady. Her father is a good friend of mine, her mother was just interred today, and she has done nothing wrong! I would thank you not to impugn her reputation or revive her distress at such a time."

Hamper gave him a knowing look and smiled. "Well, well, a young lady has finally managed to thaw through your icy exterior. I was just having a bit of fun, I didn't realize you had intentions in that direction."

John gave a bitter laugh. "My intentions are irrelevant, Miss Hale would never have me." He immediately regretted his moment of candor.

Hamper laughed in earnest now. "For years you've dazzled all of the young ladies of Milton, leaving the rest of us with no hope. And now you fix your sights on the one lady you can't have! How the mighty have fallen!"

John's face hardened and he said sardonically, "It's a comfort to know I have your sympathy Hamper. I'll be on my way." He bowed stiffly and left the office. Hamper's laughter continued to echo through the hall as he left the building.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: The Breakdown**

The following day, John forced himself to focus on work until it was an appropriate time to make a call at Crampton. When Miss Dixon opened the door and let him in she brusquely said, "Master's in the parlor."

"Actually, I must speak with Miss Hale first, away from her father."

The servant's eyes narrowed and she replied indignantly, "that girl's been through enough, I'll not have you..."

Seeing the direction her mind had taken, John thought it best to interrupt this tirade. "It is regarding Frederick Hale. Miss Hale was quite adamant that she did not want to distress her father on this topic."

Miss Dixon's eyes widened in fear and in her agitation she grasped John's forearm and choked out, "is Master Frederick safe?"

"Unfortunately, I've had no news of Mr. Hale since he left Milton. My information, rather, concerns a Mr. Leonards." The servant swayed somewhat in distressed recognition of the name and John instantly knew that the altercation at the Outwood station was not merely the result of drunken impertinence. He gave a brief explanation of Leonards's death and the aborted investigation then urged her to fetch Margaret without exciting Mr. Hale's attention.

John paced the floor of Mr. Hale's study for an interminable period before he heard her soft tread on the stairs. She started slightly when she entered, "Oh, Mr. Thornton!"

"Miss Hale," he bowed. "Did Miss Dixon not inform you I was here?" He asked.

"No, she merely said there was a man who insisted on seeing me about an investigation. What has happened?" Her confusion was reverting back to nervous anticipation. She had stopped just inside the door and he retained his position near the window.

John fumbled for a moment over how to begin this story. Attempting to put her at ease and relieve some of the tension caused by their presence alone in a room — and the remembrance of the last time they had such a meeting — he constrained himself to a businesslike tone. "As you may be aware, I am a Magistrate. I was called yesterday afternoon to the infirmary to take down the deposition of a man injured in a fall at the Outwood station. He died shortly after."

The large dark eyes, gazing straight into his face, dilated a little. Otherwise there was no motion perceptible to his experienced observation. Her lips swelled out into a richer curve than ordinary, owing to the enforced tension of the muscles, agonizingly aware of her usual appearance, John at once noticed the sullen defiance of the firm sweeping lines. She never blanched or trembled. She fixed him with her eye. Now — as he paused before going on, she said, almost as if she would encourage him in telling his tale — 'Well ... go on!' She was attempting to maintain the same detachment he was projecting.

"Due to the incoherency of his tale and his impaired circumstances, I did not realize at first that this was the same Mr. Leonards, the same fall I had witnessed the night your brother left. As a witness, I had no choice but to recuse myself from the case. I finished taking down the statement then made my own statement to my brother magistrate, Mr. Hamper."

Her facade of calm cracked. All color drained from her cheeks and her eyes went wide. "You did not tell him I was there! About Frederick?" She gasped in terror.

At the sight of her distress all of his attempts at formality broke and he said with a pleading tone, "Margaret, I am an officer of the law, it was my duty to give an honest account of what I saw. But..." John trailed off in impotent fear as she swayed for an instant where she stood, and fell prone on the floor in a dead swoon. In an instant he crossed the room and knelt at her side. "Margaret!" He cried softly, aware of the grieving father above who must not know of Margaret's indisposition. He chaffed her hands, but when she did not respond he gently lifted her from the ground and laid her on the sofa.

Margaret did not seem the type of woman to carry smelling salts about her person and he was reluctant to call for a servant and lose the chance to speak to her privately. Acting on the experience of Fanny's frequent swoons, he went to the desk and grabbed a quill, then the mantle for a match. Kneeling beside her, he lit the feather briefly before quickly extinguishing it and waiving it under her nose.

The first symptom of returning life was a quivering about the lips—a little mute soundless attempt at speech, that broke his heart. Had he been more gentle, more clear, she would not be in this wretched state. Eventually her eyes opened and blinked unfocused about the room. When those eyes finally focused on himself John burst out with feeling, "Margaret, I'm so sorry to cause you such distress. There will be no inquest, no further investigation, nobody is searching for Frederick."

The pitiful contraction of suffering upon her beautiful brows eased and she sighed. "I told Hamper what I saw: without provocation, Leonards pushed you then attacked your brother. Your brother merely defended himself and you, then boarded the train and departed. Given my statement and the lack of medical evidence that the fall did anything more than irritate an existing internal complaint, Hamper dismissed the case without so much as an investigation."

Though her violent fear had passed, Margaret quietly asked, "will his name be on record? Will there be a record that he was in England?"

"It is unlikely. The case was concluded to be the mad rantings of a drunkard. I never referred to your brother by his given name, and I doubt either of your names will ever be on file." Her comb had fallen out of her hair and John couldn't resist the urge to tenderly brush some of the loose wisps of hair from her face. He added in a quiet tone, "can you not tell me what the matter is? It pains me to see you in such distress. I will do anything in my power to help, but I can do nothing without knowing the truth."

Margaret nodded and attempted to rise, John offered her his hand to steady herself and she sat up. As she did not immediately remove her hand from his, he sat beside her on the sofa with their joined hands between them. She began with a quavering voice. "Frederick was in the Navy and did very well there for a time, quickly rising from midshipman to lieutenant. Some six or seven years ago he was posted aboard the _Russel._ He had served with Captain Reid before his ascension to rank and therefore had a foreknowledge of his viscous tendencies. There was only so much damage he could do in the lower ranks, but as captain he had far more power to abuse. He used fear and corporal punishment to motivate his men, but his demands were not reasonable. As a lieutenant Frederick did everything he could to protect those below him. One day a man fearing punishment was reckless and died. At sea there was no higher authority they could turn to for protection from the captain's abuse, so they did the only thing they could do. Fred, he ..." Margaret broke off on a choked sob. John tightened his grasp on her hand, foreseeing the end of the story.

"They called it an atrocious mutiny. Some of the sailors who accompanied Frederick were taken, and there was a court-martial held; their story accorded with what Frederick had written us. They had placed Captain Reid and some of his more loyal officers in a boat in order to defend the lives and wellbeing of the rest of the crew. They were hung at the yard-arm. And the worst was that the court, in condemning them to death, said they had suffered themselves to be led astray from their duty by their superior officers."

Margaret began sobbing in earnest and John placed an arm around her to settle her head on his shoulder. His Margaret was suffering and there was nothing he could do about it but comfort her. "I'm every day expecting a letter saying he's safely out of England but none has come. If he is caught," she continued between sobs, "he will be hung. And it will be all my fault. I wrote to him of mother's condition. I begged him to come. He would be safe in Spain were it not for me."

"Margaret," he said soothingly, tracing his hand up and down her back, "If it were not for you, your mother would not have seen your brother before she died. He made the choice to come. He took the risk upon himself, and we can only hope that he will make it safely home."

John was unsure how long they sat in that manner, but the frantic sobbing had mellowed to a steady smooth stream of tears when Margaret spoke in a tone of desolation, "I no longer have a mother. Papa is looking more frail by the day. If they should catch Frederick ... I should be all alone in the world."

"Margaret!" His voice was hoarse, and trembling with tender passion, he wanted to tell her that she need never be alone. That he would be with her for the rest of her days. That he would love her and marry her and share his life with her. But the memory of his last proposal forced him to regulate his response. He would not take advantage of her current vulnerability to trap her. Offering her security at this moment would be little better than buying her as his wife – as she had so cruelly accused him of before. "Margaret, you are not alone. Your father is alive and well upstairs. Your brother is journeying toward safety. Miss Dixon, I am sure, is hovering like a mama bear in the hallway. I've heard of an aunt and cousin in London. And you have ..." the intensity of her gaze as she looked up at him expectantly almost drained his resolve to be a gentleman, but he finished tenderly with "...friends."

She slowly lifted herself from his shoulder and looked at him with penetrating eyes. "Friends, Mr. Thornton?"

The uncertainty in her voice pushed him to offer her some reassurance. He placed his hand lightly over hers and added, "far more if you should wish it — I believe you well know _my_ wishes on the matter — but, you are in no frame of mind to make such decisions today." She gave him a watery smile that melted the cold knot of despair that had formed in his stomach when she had rejected him. Fearful of his own resolve, he cleared his throat and asked, "shall we join your father?"

She placed a hand to her disheveled hair and said evenly, "you go up, I shall join you soon."

* * *

As John prophesied, Miss Dixon was putting on a show of dusting in the hallway when he emerged. "Miss Hale needs a moment to compose herself, if you could announce me to Mr. Hale, she would probably appreciate your company after," he said to the scowling servant then followed her up the stairs.

He came up straight to her father, whose hands he took and wrung without a word—holding them in his for a minute or two, during which time his face, his eyes, his look, told of more sympathy than could be put into words. John was struck by the change in his friend. To be sure, he had come less frequently as of late to read with Mr. Hale because he wanted to give Margaret her space, but he had never expected the level of decline he saw. His wife's illness and death seemed to age him at least a decade. The lively keen intellect which had so often engaged John was now dulled by tragic loss. John's heart clenched at the idea of someday facing the same loss — of someday losing Margaret. A moment later he realized that he could not lose someone who was never his in the first place.

In Margaret's absence, Mr. Hale began to express the demons and doubts that had been plaguing him of late. It seemed he could unburden himself better to Mr. Thornton than to Margaret of all the thoughts and fancies and fears that had been frost-bound in his brain till now. Mr. Thornton said very little; but every sentence he uttered added to Mr. Hale's reliance and regard for him. No stranger himself to grief and heartache, Mr. Thornton readily engaged his host in this spiritual discussion of doubt, fear, shame, and redemption.

Presently Margaret came into the room and he could feel the change in the demeanor of each of his companions. Margaret, who had so recently released her torrent of sadness and suffering on his shoulder affected a brittle false cheerfulness for her father's benefit. Mr. Hale, who had been eloquently pondering the depths of his soul and condoling with John as a kindred spirit regressed further into himself.

Margaret took her work and sat down very quiet and silent. In spite of the dampened spirits, John felt that he gave some solace to both mourners. His presence was always a certain kind of pleasure to Mr. Hale, as his power and decision made him, and his opinions, a safe, sure port. Margaret's frequent glances at him, however were new. He was not so naïve as to believe that in two brief meetings he could turn her from bitter dislike to anything near his own regard, but when she looked at him she allowed her mask to slip. He could see her pain and could see that it gave her some comfort to know that she need not be bear up before him. She did not love him, but she knew she could depend on him. It was a start.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Hope**

Wednesday morning John arrived early at the mill. He had returned from his illuminating meeting with the Hales the previous evening and worked into the night, trying to compensate for his inattention of the past days. By mid-morning he had nearly caught himself up. He now worked with the vigor of an untroubled mind. To be sure, the mill had yet to recover from the strike, but a burden had been lifted from his soul and he had reason to hope. Margaret Hale was as perfect and unblemished as he had believed. She had faced more sorrow and hardship than anyone had thought and yet bore it with such determined pride and grace. And she trusted _him._ She had shared her darkest secret, her sorrow, her fears with him in a way he was certain she had not shared with any other soul. Trust was a solid foundation for friendship, from friendship could she not progress to regard and from regard to love?

Yes, the potential of disaster still loomed on the horizon, but with such precious hopes to nurture John was able to devote himself to his work in a way he had not been able to muster since the strike. He knew enough of Margaret's character to know that she would not marry him for security alone, but if she was ever able to to return his feelings, if she did agree to marry him, he wanted to ensure she had that security. Over the past months since her initial rejection thoughts of Margaret had plagued his mind and robbed him of focus, now they served to sharpen it. He would turn the mill around for Margaret, for the workers she cared so deeply about, for their future. He repeated this like a mantra as he worked until the closing whistle. Then, grabbing the book he had suggested to Mr. Hale, he made his way again to Crampton.

He had never truly courted her before. He had admired her from a distance but their personal interactions were often combative — she was quick to accuse and he was quick to anger. It seemed her estimation of his proposal had fallen somewhere between an insulting but inevitable misunderstanding following the riot and a shock that he should profess such feelings. After their discussion yesterday, however, she knew what he was about. He would no longer hide his feelings from her. He would court her openly and pray that she could eventually return his feelings.

The under-servant, Martha, opened the door and as he followed her up the stairs, he heard Margaret's soft voice reading aloud. He stopped Martha with a hand to her arm and asked her not to announce him. The maid bowed in deference and continued about her work. John settled himself against the doorway of the parlor and observed the domestic scene before him. Mr. Hale looked in better health and spirits than the previous day. He watched his daughter with a cautious eye, as if he had finally emerged from his own grief long enough to take note of Margaret. She had an ethereal sort of fragile beauty about her today. She looked pallid and tired, worn down by the weight of her cares, but for all of this she retained her grace and elegance. She read well: she gave the due emphasis, but John could tell her mind was not engaged. Though the picture presented held only a ghost of her habitual spirit, he could envision the utter bliss of evenings spent beside the fire with her reading softly to him. He contentedly watched her read, allowing her soothing voice to flow over him until she looked up at the end of a chapter and caught his eye.

"Oh! Mr. Thornton!" John smiled inwardly to be greeted by the same expression as yesterday but with far more warmth than alarm.

"I'm sorry to startle you Miss Hale, I did not want to interrupt," he said as he bowed and entered the room. "That was very well read."

"Thank you," she said in a low voice and looked down blushing. John was transfixed by that beguiling flush as it spread to her neck. He was pulled from his contemplation of just how far that blush would travel by the sound of a throat clearing.

"Mr. Hale, how are you?" He turned and warmly greeted his friend, his own cheeks flushing slightly at being caught having such thoughts, and by the lady's father no less.

"Thank you John, I am much better from yesterday." The old man cast curious glances between John and his daughter. John handed him the book and renewed their conversation from the previous day. This tactic served to divert Mr. Hale's attention for several minutes, but between the newly rekindled hope and the blushing furtive glances Margaret occasionally sent his direction, John had difficulty focusing on the conversation.

"Margaret my dear, would you ah," Mr. Hale paused and looked around, "would you run down to the kitchen and see about tea? I'm afraid Dixon is still out and Martha is not so prompt."

"Of course," Margaret set aside her work and rose. She turned her expressive eyes toward John and asked, "you will stay for tea?" He would stay forever if she would but ask him, but for now he committed only to tea.

Once she left the room, Mr. Hale turned and began haltingly. "John, do you ... have you ... I know I haven't been terribly observant of the world around me recently but there seems to be something different about you and ... and Margaret ..." He trailed off but his implied question was clear.

"I assure you that my intentions are entirely honorable. I am in love with your daughter." He felt a thrill at expressing it out loud to her father.

"Oh, poor fellow, I'm afraid she's never liked you." John grimaced at this level of candor.

"I am well aware of the low opinion she had of me. I know she does not love me, but we spoke yesterday on ..." he paused, not wishing to distress Mr. Hale over the incident at Outwood station, "on a matter that has been resolved and Miss Hale did not want to trouble you over at this time. Over the course of this conversation we came to a better understanding of each other and it has given me some hope."

"Well, of course I wish you every happiness," said Mr. Hale with a hint of a smile, "but Margaret can be ... stubborn. I would not push her against her wishes."

John scowled slightly, "nor I. If you wish for my happiness, I'm afraid it is entirely dependent on Miss Hale's happiness. For now I am content with the hope that she no longer abhors me. I should like to be a friend to her, to spend time with her, to court her — if she'll permit it." The words hung heavy in the air as a moment elapsed in silence, broken only by the rustle of skirts against the door frame as Margaret returned. He looked up sheepishly, afraid of what she'd heard, afraid that he had once again been too presumptuous, afraid to see contempt in her expressive eyes. She flashed him a small smile and a nod, both nearly imperceptible in their subtlety and gone in an instant, but John's heart swelled. Had she just agreed to a courtship?

"Martha shall be up presently with the tea," Margaret said quietly as she resumed her seat. A few moments of stilted conversation on busy nothings passed before Martha emerged with the tray. When the servant retreated, Margaret began pouring the tea with pretty, noiseless, daintiness. John lamented the loss of the bracelet that had so fascinated him when he first came for tea, stripped of such frivolous ornaments in her mourning. Their hands touched briefly as she handed him his tea-cup. She averted her eyes as she had in the past, but her cheeks flushed beautifully and she unsuccessfully tried to repress a small smile. Given such encouragement, he sincerely longed to ask her to do for him what he saw her compelled to do for her father, who took her little finger and thumb in his masculine hand, and made them serve as sugar-tongs.

John was startled out of his study of his love's graceful movements when she addressed him. "I have received a long awaited letter today Mr. Thornton," she paused and looked nervously at her father. "Of course, we can not expect condolences as of yet as all of our family is out of England at present – my aunt is in Italy and my cousin in Corfu – and the post does not move quite so rapidly. Nonetheless, it is a comfort at such a time to know that everyone is well..." He breathed a sigh of relief. She did not wish to raise the topic directly before her father, but her brother was safely out of England. She softly continued, "... and that we are not alone."

She said this last with such tenderness, and such an earnest look directed at him that for a moment he was unable to do more than drown in her eyes. "I am glad everyone is well." He was struck again with the memory of her despair of the previous day. She must feel the absence of her Aunt and cousin all the more keenly now that she was bereft of her mother. "Will they return soon to England?"

"My aunt winters in Italy and will not return until April for the season. My cousin's tenure in Corfu is dependant on the workings of the Army as her husband, Captain Lennox, is stationed there at present." His heart ached for her, at such a time she should have all womanly care, all gentle tendance and yet her nearest relations were away. He resolved to cajole his mother and sister to treat her kindly.

Their conversation progressed on the topic of her Harley Street relations as they drank their tea. Mr. Hale said little and waivered between solitary grief and quiet contemplation of his two companions. It was after one of these periods of observation that he stirred himself to recall a thread of their discussion from yesterday. "I believe I have a book that perfectly illustrates the, ah, the theological doctrine in question. I'll just go fetch it." He looked John in the eyes and said significantly "I shall be no more than a few minutes." John nodded gratefully at the chance of a few moments private conversation with Margaret.

"Miss. Hale," he began before he was struck by a wave of insecurity.

"Yes?" She answered shyly, averting her gaze.

"So much has happened over the last days," he began and swallowed the knot of anxiety that suddenly lodged in his throat, "amidst the shock and grief ... some of it has given me ... Forgive me, it's difficult to find the words." His eyes intently traced the delicate ivy scrolls of the carpet as he found himself unable to look at her and face the same ire or indignation that was so painfully etched in his memory. He had no wish to pressure her, to rush her into an agreement before she was ready. He would not speak in the haste of his hot passion; he would weigh each word.

"It is perhaps indelicate to ask, but I need to know if you still view me as poorly as you have in the past."

He was bracing himself for her icy tone of rejection, so her gentle reply of: "Mr. Thornton," caused him to snap his head up suddenly. "You are a good man, far more honorable than I gave you credit for in August." John released the breath he'd been unaware of holding. "I am ashamed of how wrongly I spoke to you," she continued.

"No," he replied tenderly, "Your reaction was perhaps proportional to my insolence. I realize that though _I_ was hopelessly in love, it was unfair to assume _you_ to be as well. You hardly knew me. You hardly know me now. You need time to get to know me, to see if your feelings could grow. Would you grant me the opportunity to court you?"

"I think..." she began. Her eyes were intently staring at the needlework on her lap although her hands had long since ceased moving. John was helpless to do more than stare at her, his heart in his throat, as the pause lengthened. "I think I would like that, Mr. Thornton."

* * *

As he stepped out of the Hale's home that evening, John was scarcely aware of the attention he drew. He was so caught up in the happy remembrances of the last hour and ecstatic visions of the future that he paid no heed to the inquisitive glances from others on the street. The sight of the habitually grave manufacturer leaving the Hale household with a broad smile was enough to confirm in public opinion the outcome of much anticipated events.

The gossip about the handsome mill master and the elegant southern lady had begun just after the incident at the Outwood station. Mr. Thornton, the prominent master and magistrate commanded far more public scrutiny than the obscure Hale family. A crowd of people disembarking the train had witnessed his mad dash across the train platform to reach her side — indeed it had drawn far more attention than the quarrel at the far end of the crowd. Woolmer, a grocer's assistant, had recognized Miss Hale and noted that she had begun her evening on the arm of one man and ended it in intimate conversation with Mr. Thornton. His tale spread rapidly through the servants and tradesmen of Milton. Upon hearing the tale, Mr. Leonards' fiancee was stricken by the coincidence of such a scene happening on the same day at the same station where her dear George had last been seen alive and well. However, as the surgeon and inspector had assured her that his death was the result of an internal complaint, she resumed her private grief.

When word spread to the laborers, some swore that they had seen Miss Hale clinging to the master during the riot. Others, however, held fast to their initial understanding that it was Miss Thornton who was injured. Most focused on Miss Hale's past kindness to them in relation to this news. Some hoped that she would have a positive influence in their favor over Mr. Thornton while others pitied that such a nice young lady should have to put up with the stubborn and cruel master. Nicholas Higgins punched the first man in the pub who spread the story to him in the nose and warned them all against slandering such a respectable young woman.

In the upper echelons of Milton society, rumors of a connection sprouted from a different source. While Hamper was duty bound against discussing the matter of the investigation in public, he did not scruple to inform Mr. Stephens about the diverting matter of Thornton's unrequited love. Mr. Stephens told his wife, who, of course, combined this report with the tittle-tattle she had heard from her ladies maid and carried the tale to Mrs. Slickson and her daughter who related it to Miss Collingbrook, who rushed to Fanny Thornton with the tale. Fanny, remembering John's strictures requiring her silence about Miss Hale's injury after the riot, stopped short of actually revealing how brazenly Miss Hale had thrown herself at her brother. However, as she dearly loved gossip, especially when she had her own to contribute, she insisted that it was Miss Hale who had set her cap at John.

As seasoned gossips tend to veer around the people involved in the gossip, and the matrons of Milton were intimidated by Mrs. Thornton, it was not until Wednesday that the careless Fanny confronted the unsuspecting Mrs. Thornton with the news. Mrs. Thornton — the only person aware of John's initial proposal and subsequent rejection other than John and Miss Hale themselves — was incensed that her respectable son would be embroiled in gossip tied to that woman! John was proud. Too proud to wish his most private affairs to be bandied about by the gossips. She feared too that this malicious gossip would re-open wounds that had not yet properly healed. He had been more irritable in the last two months than at any time in his life, and exposing his feelings to society would do nothing to improve his temper.

She was not surprised that he didn't return to the house at the closing bell as affairs at the mill had been complicated since the riot and he had been working late hours. When an hour had come and gone with still no sign of her son she made her way to his office. She was met by a empty room and a feeling of dread. The lamps were long since extinguished and she could not fathom where he had gone.

The next hour was spent in agitated worry. Problems were difficult enough at the mill, John did not need society flaunting his failure with Miss Hale in front of him. The whole family had seen enough flaunting of failure when their friends turned their backs on them after her husband's death. John had worked long and hard to regain their footing in society, surpassing even their prior standing. Was he now to be rewarded for his troubles with ridicule over a woman who was not even worthy of his notice?

When she heard the door open just before dinner and her son's quick footsteps on the stairs, she braced herself for the fallout. In this state of trepidation, she was wholly unprepared for the brilliant smile he wore when he entered the room.

* * *

"Good evening mother, I hope I've not held up dinner." John said

"Dinner is not for another ten minutes and Fanny's not down yet herself." Mrs. Thornton replied circumspectly. "You know what the servants are saying about Margaret. Out after dark with two gentlemen, yourself included. The masters are no better, crowing over your broken heart."

"I do not know or care what they are saying. And nor should you." John replied, still unable to suppress his smile.

"You do not care that your good name is being bandied about in connection to a woman of such character?" This at last removed the smile from John's face, replaced by a furious scowl.

"Her character! Mother, you do not dare —" he faced about, and looked into her face with his flaming eyes. "That is the woman I plan to marry! There is nothing to be said against her character and I will not hear it from you."

"Marry?" His mother responded in astonishment. "You plan to save her reputation by marrying her? I suppose she'll have no choice but to take you now, though she wouldn't have you before."

"I have no such plan! I wish to marry her because I love her! The truth is that I _was_ there that evening at the station. I saw her escort her _brother_ to the station. I saw a man shove Margaret and attack her brother. After her brother departed on his train she was justifiably upset so I waited with her until she was calm and then put her in a cab home. What about that behavior deserves your reproach?"

"Brother? The gossip has him as another lover that you've scared away."

John exhaled and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Of course it does. The gossips will latch on to any detail and frame it in the most scandalous light. Heaven forbid the latest scandal have a reasonable explanation and ruin everyone's fun," he said dryly.

His mother sat gravely in contemplation for some time as John poured himself a drink from the sideboard. Before either renewed their conversation, Fanny flounced into the room with a superior smile. "How is your broken heart John?" She said with unbridled glee, "it's all anyone can talk of."

"It's been entirely mended Fanny, now that Miss Hale has agreed to a courtship. But thank you for your touching show of concern."

For a moment, she was silent with her shock. When she recovered, she shouted triumphantly: "I knew it! I knew she had set her cap at you and now she's trapped you with rumors!"

"She's done no such thing, Fanny! I'll thank you not to discuss my private affairs in the street."

"She's accepted you?" His mother replied, surprise evident in her tone.

"Why wouldn't she, it's been her goal all along," Fanny said petulantly.

John ignored her and responded to his mother. "She's warming to me," he said giddily with a boyish smile, "she trusts me, and she's willing to get to know me. It's more than I hoped for."

Mrs. Thornton cast an appraising eye over her son before replying. "Well, I can see she makes you happy. I may even grow to like her for it ..." She gave a faint twitch of the right side of her mouth "... in time."

"Mother, Fanny, I know you've never overly cared for Miss Hale, but her mother has just died and her aunt and cousin are abroad. In these trying times she may need help and womanly counsel."

Mrs. Thornton merely nodded with all of the disappointed gravity of a martyr. Fanny, never one to hide her pique, snorted and replied, "lord knows what we should find to talk about. She's not accomplished and she can't play."

"Really? Did you know that she was educated in London with her cousin. Her former piano master is now engaged teaching the royal princesses. Sadly, Margaret gave up the pastime when they moved to Milton." Margaret, of course, had told John this story this afternoon as an example of the excesses of Harley Street, but he knew it would be the quickest way to stoke Fanny's interest.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Added Laments**

On Thursday John again awoke early and headed to the office before even Williams, his overseer arrived. He hoped to visit in Crampton again today as it would be his last opportunity to see Margaret until Sunday. As he now had even further incentive for his mill to prosper, he was determined not to allow his work to suffer from his courtship so he was resolved not to visit during the work day. Friday evening he had a late meeting with Mr. Lattimer and on Saturday they dined at the Slicksons.

He walked the rows of looms, silent and still in the gloom of a Milton dawn, the first time he'd had the chance to do such an inspection since the strike ended. He discovered no less than four spinning frames and three looms that were improperly loaded and would inevitably have led to sub-standard cloth if left un-checked. He sighed. He was loathe to admit his own errors, but it seems the Irish hands he had brought in were making a mull of things. He made a note of the machines that would need re-dressing and determined check the quality of the fabric produced since the strike ended. Of the four orders that were ready or nearly ready for shipment, roughly a quarter of the cloth was unfit to ship. With some careful maneuvering between himself and Williams, they were able to re-distribute the fabric so that two full orders could ship today. The other two would be delivered late, but delays were to be expected following a strike. It would not do to alienate customers at such a time with flawed products.

By the time the closing bell sounded he was haggard and weary from work, but the walk to Crampton and the prospect of seeing Margaret lightened his spirits. But as soon as Dixon opened the door, he could sense the dampened spirits. She scowled and grumbled at him, "I'd as soon turn you away today for all the state they're in, but Miss Margaret said as you're expected she _will_ see you." The servant turned and stomped up the steps, muttering about unwelcome visitors in a house of mourning.

John entered the drawing room to find that Margaret was its sole occupant. Her eyes were red-rimmed with freshly shed tears, her face was wan, and her trembling hands grasped her work that showed little progress from the previous day. "Mr. Thornton, it's so kind of you to visit us today. Father is feeling unwell and resting." Her voice wavered and she offered the forced brittle smile he had seen her direct at her father. The whole tableau broke his heart.

In two swift steps he was kneeling by her side. "Margaret, love, whatever is the matter?" Over the past days she had lowered her guard toward him. He had seen this forced cheerful facade projected for the world at the funeral and subsequently to her father and even Dixon, but not at him. She should not have to bear up before him.

She lowered her eyes to her lap and whispered, "it is nothing," as her eyes pooled with tears.

"Margaret, please, allow me to share your burdens." He lifted a hand and gently swept a lone tear from her cheek.

She leaned into his touch, but then sighed. "I fear it is a topic we will not agree on," she said ruefully. "Today father and I called on our friend, Nicholas Higgins." John tensed at the mention of the union leader, but he had urged Margaret to confide in him and he would not interrupt. "Mary Higgins had helped us here while Mama ... while Frederick was visiting and Martha was away and we wished to pay her — not that they would accept money between friends. While we were there the most dreadful thing happened." She began to cry in earnest now and John moved to sit beside her on the settee. He drew her head to his shoulder and stroked her back — he could not be bothered by propriety when confronted with Margaret's tears.

"We were drawn into the street by the din of a crowd. Six men were bearing home the body of a drowned man atop a door. I have never ... Mama looked so peaceful in the end. After all of her pain and suffering, in the end she was asleep and drifted off peacefully, surrounded by her family. Boucher ..." she trailed off in horror of the memory. John struggled for composure over his own horror that Boucher of all people had caused Margaret even more suffering.

"Boucher had drowned himself in the brook. There was no peace in his death. I shall never forget the sight of that one open, glassy, un-seeing eye, the swollen discolored face, the perpetual drops of water streaming off the sides of the makeshift liter." She buried her face in his shoulder and shuddered.

"I am sorry you had to witness such a scene," he said soothingly.

"That was not the worst of it!" She cried. "The men wanted Nicholas to tell his family as they had been friends. But they had parted in anger and he could not face the widow. I thought father ... last rites were such a part of his former profession that he has borne this dismal task so frequently ... but coming so swiftly after mother's death, father could not bear it. Nobody else volunteered and I could not bear the thought of that poor unsuspecting woman waiting inside for a husband who would never return in this life, so I went in.

"I am certain that I shall forever be haunted by the monstrous sight of Boucher's distorted, agonised face, but the disbelieving invalid wife, the starving children, the undisguised grief and anguish and poverty were the true horrors of the ordeal. He left behind six children and a wife too ill to work. Whatever will become of them?"

Margaret's tender heart would never cease to amaze John. Had Fanny — by some rueful mistake, for she would never willingly visit the Princeton district — endured the same situation, she would be prostrate on a couch fretting about how the shock effected her nerves. Margaret could spare no thought for her own ordeal outside of compassion for that unfortunate family. She suffered from the same grief as her father and lacked his professional and worldly experience, and yet she was able to muster the strength to perform the dreadful task of informing the widow when he was overcome. He felt he had little to say that would comfort her, so he merely held her in silent admiration of her strength as she cried softly.

After some minutes, he felt her stiffen and sit up. "Boucher gave up on life, abandoned his family, because he could not find work. He could not support them." John heard the accusation in her tone and it cut him to the quick.

"What would you have me do?" He asked softly, tamping down the instinctual anger at having his business decisions questioned. "Boucher was one of the first men pounding on the gates of Marlborough Mills the day of the riot. Mother saw him gathering more strikers and riling them to anger and violence. I recall you saw him yourself that day."

"He acted as he did because he had been forced into the strike by the union. His family was starving, he was desperate." She spat at him.

"The hands have the right to leave off work for a strike if they choose. I have a right as a business man to hire those who are willing to take their place. They did not have the right to damage my property, threaten myself and my employees, and hurt ..." his own voice broke and he raised a hand to her temple, a faint scar was all that remained of her injury "... you were hurt. You could have died. Because of his illegal actions I lost a substantial sum in damages, I had to send most of my Irish hands back at my own expense because they feared for their safety, and I nearly ... I nearly lost you." He'd had nightmares about what could have happened if the stone had hit her temple directly instead of merely grazing it, if the mob had rushed them instead of remaining in the courtyard, a thousand scenarios in which things could have gone differently.

He saw Margaret's expression soften at his own emotional outburst, but the defiant tilt to her chin did not entirely relax. "If Martha came in here and threw teacups at us, threatening bodily harm if you did not pay her more money than you could afford, would you continue to employ _her_?"

She quirked her lips slightly, "I suppose not, it's just ... the children."

"I know, which is why I did not press charges. Unlike the union, I know that it is useless to try to ring money out of those who can ill afford it."

"Considering that you live in a grand house with far more servants than family members and sufficient food on the table and the Bouchers had eight people in a two-room hovel, I hardly think that your own pecuniary problems can compare."

"Be that as it may, were I to cut all of the frivolities out of our household budget, it would only free up a fraction of the funds necessary for the increase in wages for all of my workers that the union demanded, and the servants would all be out of jobs. We may be able to feed the Boucher family, but there are many more in such circumstances." Margaret merely lowered her head. "Truly, Margaret, I am not the overbearing Master you may think me," he said sadly.

She covered his hand with hers and said tenderly, "oh, I do know. You are a good man John Thornton, I did not mean to imply otherwise. I have merely had a trying day."

Overcome by this increase in esteem, he turned his hand so that he was holding hers and brought it to his lips. "Thank you," he said reverently.

She blushed and said, "how abominable I must have been in the past that you would thank me for admitting you were a good man after I had all but accused you ..."

"Come now, I've had my share of abominable behavior in our past interactions to deserve it. And any praise you see fit to bestow on me will be eagerly accepted, little though I may deserve it."

Margaret smiled meekly and asked, "and how was your day?"

It was an obvious attempt to shift the conversation, but he feared his answer would not suit. "Another day at the mill," he dissembled, not wishing to add fuel to her anxieties about the strike.

"And as a woman I couldn't possibly understand or hold an interest in your business at the mill?" She was striving for a teasing tone, but he could hear a tinge of her signature indignation mixed in.

"Nothing of the sort, you've met my mother. Some men may underestimate the intelligence of the women in their lives, but I do no such thing," he responded. "But, if your goal was to shift the topic away from the strike, I'm afraid my day at the mill will be a poor choice."

"The machines are back up again though?"

"Yes, they've been back up for over a month. But, I made an inspection of the machines this morning before the hands arrived and found several of them that were improperly set up. Although most of the Irish went home, it seems that those who stayed were never properly trained in the chaos following the strike. My overseer and I spent the rest of the morning checking the finished cloth and found quite a lot that was not up to our quality standards or those of our customers. We're still behind from the strike, and this has set us farther back than we knew."

"At least you were able to catch it before it was delivered."

"Yes, for these orders. We can only hope those that we've already delivered will not be returned. We cannot afford to put off customers before we're fully back on our feet. Thankfully, I discovered the problems this morning, else who knows how much damage could have been done."

"You've not let them go? The remaining Irish?"

"No, we spent the afternoon either training or reassigning the problem hands. The fault lays primarily with us. Normally training of new hands would be seen to immediately, but Williams and I have both been overtaxed trying to recuperate from the strike, and the Milton hands bore too much resentment towards the 'knobsticks' to train them willingly."

"Is there an awful amount of animosity still?"

"Aye, it's to be expected." He ran a hand over his face. "I regret bringing in the Irish, it has caused me nothing but expense and grief. Without that one decision, there would have been no riot, you would not have been injured, I would not have lost the time and inventory on wasted cotton, and my hands would not hate each other," he sighed.

"Yes, and the strike might still be going without the riot to break it, you would have lost more time — and possibly clients — from the ongoing delay, children would still be starving," she paused and looked at him shyly, "you may not have offered for me, I may not have insulted you, I may have thought your intervention at the Outwood station borne out of officiousness rather than concern, we would not be sitting here having this pleasant conversation, and we certainly would not be courting."

John smiled. It was the first time Margaret had directly referenced their courtship and his very heart-pulse was arrested by the tone in which she spoke. He captured her hand between both of his and said softly, "now that would be tragic."

She laughed, but quickly sobered and replied, "there has been enough tragedy in Milton in recent months. We cannot waste our energy worrying over what might have been."

Conversation returned to his work and John found speaking to Margaret about mill matters an unexpected pleasure. Of course, he had other confidants on the matter. He spoke often with the other masters, but they were primarily concerned with profits and schemes, and the conversation always had an undercurrent of jealousy and competition. If Marlborough Mills failed their businesses would profit. His mother had long been his confidant and advisor in business matters, but she was always pragmatic and practical. She was primarily concerned with their own success and standing in Milton society. Margaret had a way of seeing to the heart of business matters. She was concerned with the welfare of all of the people involved. She wanted John to succeed. Not just for himself, but because his success meant the success of the spinners, weavers, piecers, accountants and clerks he employed. She wanted him to produce quality products because the welfare of his buyers and their clients as well depended on it.

He had never known anyone with as generous a heart as Margaret Hale. His greatest desire in life was to find his own place in her heart, not just as one of many but as the one, as she had found her place in his heart. He knew that he was unworthy of her love, that she was by far his superior in matters of the heart, but he must try all the same.

All too soon for his liking, the time for their visit came to an end. He parted with an apology that he would be unable to visit the next couple evenings and an earnest invitation to walk out with him on Sunday.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: Disputes and Negotiations**

On Sunday John made his way directly to the Hale's house after church, unable to bear being away any longer. _What a difference a week makes!_ He thought to himself. He had spent the previous Sunday restlessly unable to focus on anything. Every time he sat down to a book his mind would wander to conjectures about the great mystery of Margaret's brother. His mother's conversation he'd found irksome, Fanny's had been doubly so. He had bounced between elation that she might trust him and fear that she would not. Even this had been an improvement. The prior week he had spent his Sunday mercilessly throwing himself into work, only to be distracted and inattentive due to the festering wound of Margaret's rejection. And now he was briskly walking towards her home blissfully plotting out their future.

Prior to the incident at the Outwood station, he had gone nearly two months without more than brief chance encounters with Margaret. Now, the two days that had passed since he saw her last felt like a lifetime. Of course, the tedium of the previous evening contributed to that state. Fanny had ensured that word of their courtship spread like wildfire, so by the time he arrived at the Slicksons' the prior evening, his whole circle of society was already apprised. Fanny, of course, had insisted that Margaret trapped John into the courtship. No matter how frequently John stringently denied this accusation, his dinner companions continued to condole with him over the unfortunate circumstances. Miss Slickson, Miss Latimer, and Miss Collingbrook — the three marriageable aged women who had been unsuccessfully competing for his attentions for the past couple of years — were all somehow convinced that they could 'save' him from his 'unwanted' courtship by taking Miss Hale's place. Before the soup course had even been removed, John had been forced to overcome his typical aversion to discussing his private affairs and set the record straight by emphatically extolling Margaret's virtues, declaring her his superior, and assuring them that he felt all the advantage of the match most keenly. After such tedious company, he could scarcely wait for the day to come. Today would be the first time that they appeared in public as a couple, a tangible declaration of their courtship.

There was some bustle when he arrived over chaperonage. Martha was eager to join them both because a walk was preferable to housework and because she would have the best vantage point for the courtship that everyone in Milton was talking about. Dixon clearly did not wish to go — her knees would suffer from a long walk — but still insisted that she chaperone because she would be more attentive. In the end, a gleeful Martha ran to the kitchen to fetch her hat and coat while Dixon gave her explicit instructions that she had no intention of following.

Ten minutes later John was walking tall down the Crampton streets with Margaret's hand neatly tucked into his arm and Martha struggling to both maintain the proper distance between her and the young mistress and eavesdrop on their conversation.

"May I choose our route for the day Mr. Thornton?" Margaret asked, a hint of mischief in her voice.

"Of course," he replied and she flashed him a small smile. She turned to lead them back in the direction of Milton. John told her about the progress of the Irish hands since their training and other minutia about the previous two days at the mill. She asked him about dinner at the Slicksons and he found far more amusement in the emotions of her face as he progressed through the tale than he had in the entirety of the dinner party. She began with a flash of horror and embarrassment that their courtship was already so much a matter of gossip. This faded into outrage at the insinuations that she had trapped him. He had to place his hand over hers to prevent her from retreating from him altogether. She laughed at the antics of the silly girls who saw their courtship as a challenge — though he triumphed to see a hint of jealousy as well. She blushed furiously and looked at the ground as he repeated all he had said in praise of her.

"I am sorry," she said quietly. He quirked a questioning eyebrow at her and she continued: "you are a very private man, it must have been very uncomfortable to be the center of such a conversation."

"True, it was uncomfortable, but I did not say anything untrue. You are an extraordinary woman Miss Hale, and I don't mind if the world knows of my regard for you." Her blush deepened and she continued her avid study of the pavement as they walked over it.

John was afraid that this was perhaps a bit too close to a declaration for Margaret to handle at the moment, so he shifted the conversation. "And how have you fared these past two days?"

"As I'm sure you are aware, your mother paid me a visit yesterday." John looked at her with worried expectation, his mother had told him little of what passed except that _she had done her duty._ "She had some very strong opinions about the indiscretion of walking train platforms with young men in the evening, even if he was only my brother. That I must protect my character from malicious gossip especially if ..." She trailed off and John mentally concluded _especially if you are to marry her son._

He sighed, "I asked her offer you friendship and counsel after the passing of your mother. I am sorry that she took the opportunity to admonish you."

"She doesn't ..." she began then took a shaky breath and lowered her voice "... what does she know of Frederick?"

His eyes widened, did she think he'd betrayed her trust? "That he is your brother, he was visiting your dying mother, and you accompanied him to the train station. She knows no more." She released her breath and an uncomfortable silence fell between them. "Margaret, you must know I would never betray your trust."

She gently squeezed his arm and said contritely, "rationally I know that. It's just with Frederick ... I scare easily. I am glad your mother knows it was my brother and doesn't suspect something worse, I was just unprepared to discuss the matter with her."

"I'm sorry, I had planned to tell you of her upcoming visit on Thursday, but I'm afraid I lose rational thought at the sight of your tears."

"In that case I suppose I must forgive you," she cast him a small smile. Before continuing her account of the past days. "On Friday we visited Mrs. Boucher and the children again. The poor woman is too consumed with self-pity and grief to be of much use to her children. She actually showed them the body, discolored and disfigured as it is, the poor babes."

"It is difficult to loose a parent at any age, but their youth may work in their favor. Fanny remembers little of my father's death and the aftermath."

"Whereas some of us are both blessed and cursed with those memories," she said softly and squeezed his arm again lightly. "Unfortunately, I fear that unpleasant memories will not be the worst of their struggles. Mrs. Boucher is too ill and the children too young to work. Our friend, Nicholas Higgins ..." she paused and John felt his gut clench in anticipation of where she was going "... he has taken responsibility for the family in their father's absence. He spent the day yesterday searching for work, but as he was a union leader he has yet to find any. He came to see us last evening, thinking perhaps to move the whole family to the South where food is cheap and wages good." She glanced up at him with a self-deprecating smile. "Apparently I have been over-nostalgic in my praise of Helstone. Even if he could manage to get all eight of them down there, he'd never be suited to farm labor, nor the dullness of southern life. They labour on, from day to day, in the great solitude of steaming fields—never speaking or lifting up their poor, bent, downcast heads. The hard spade-work robs their brain of life; the sameness of their toil deadens their imagination; they don't care to meet to talk over thoughts and speculations, even of the weakest, wildest kind, after their work is done; they go home brutishly tired, poor creatures! caring for nothing but food and rest."

She was rambling now. He suspected she was talking around the question she most wanted to ask him, but her ramblings had hit upon a startling revelation. "So, you admit the South has its faults then?" He asked as glibly as he could, but he'd always had his concerns: that she would never truly adjust to the North; that she would always be dreaming of her idyllic home in the South; that if she stayed with him he'd be selfishly trapping her here.

"In my life I've lived in Helstone, London, and Milton. I was happiest in Helstone as a child and felt that I truly belonged there. When I went to London to be educated and polished I cried for weeks for missing my family and for the loss of my youthful bliss. London was not to my taste, everything was very grand and fine, but nobody was real, genuine. When I returned to Helstone for my holidays, everything seemed nearly perfect in contrast. However, when I returned to Helstone to live for some months after my cousin's wedding that veneer began to crack. The countryside was as perfect as I remembered, but our parsonage was so far removed from any cultivated society. We were secluded, seeing no one but farmers and labourers from week's end to week's end. There was certainly nobody who could read Plato with my father or engage us in philosophical debates." John smiled broadly down at her at this praise. "When we moved to Milton I was so unhappy at first that in the general happiness of the recollection of those times in Helstone, I had forgotten the small details which were not so pleasant. I spoke of Milton in disparaging terms without fully comprehending the North or its people. To be sure, there's granite in all you northern people, but it makes you strong, capable, unflinchingly frank."

"So, you no longer see us as a society driven by the gambling spirit of trade that serves to grind men into sufferers and haters through injustice?" John asked in a voice tinged with trepidation and hope. That granite she spoke of had protected John from the gossip and shame following his father's suicide and through countless business negotiations, but it had been vulnerable to all of the barbs she had sent his way.

"No, which is why I feel equal to asking you this question ..." John's heart stuttered, she couldn't expect ... "Nicholas has been to Marlborough Mills in search of work, but your overlooker turned him away. I was hoping, for the sake of those children that you would hear him out."

"Margaret ..." John began but found himself unable to continue. Hiring a union leader would be like putting a firebrand into the midst of the cotton-waste, particularly with tensions so high between the Irish and the Milton hands. It did not make good business sense to willingly hire a mischief-maker. But Margaret was looking at him with those beseeching eyes "... it's not that simple. It's admirable for Higgins to take care of a man such as Boucher's children but ..." Before he could finish Margaret reared back from him, removed her arm from his, and shot him a glare of shocked disdain.

" _A man such as ..._ I am disappointed in you John Thornton. That you of all people could judge children based on the actions of their father. Would _you_ look down on a grieving widow and children who are struggling to survive on nothing after their father took his own life because he had made errors and was unable to support them? I have falsely attributed many faults to you, but I never thought you such a hypocrite!"

John stared at her with barely concealed rage. Nobody in Milton had dared mention his father's suicide so directly to him for years. He and his mother had worked tirelessly to cleanse their reputations of that stain — to pull themselves out of poverty — to move past the pain and anger and social snubs. To have that thrown back in his face by Margaret ... _Good God, was she right?_ Was he as bad as the merchants who had revoked their credit, the dozen or so shop owners who had refused to hire him with no work experience before one had taken pity on him and hired him? His anger was rapidly cooling to shame as she glared at him with disappointment — as he watched all of the progress he had made with her crumble before his eyes — as she began to turn and walk away ... "Margaret!"

She stopped but did not turn. He stepped closer and said quietly, "forgive me, it was an unpardonable thing to say." When she finally turned to face him he saw tears pooling in her eyes. "You spoke just now of forgetting the faults in your past because the recollections were overall too pleasant. I believe I'm guilty of the opposite. That time after my father ..." he swallowed down the pain of these recollections and she took his hand in hers as if she had done so a thousand times "... that time was miserable. But in the face of that misery it is easy to forget those blessings I did have. My mother, at least was capable and thrifty, a kind draper did eventually hire me, though my Latin declensions proved a poor education for shop work. I should hate to think that in my success I have become like those people who tormented me in my darkest hour."

She smiled at him and he breathed easier. "If you and Higgins would speak out together as man to man — if you would be patient enough to listen to him with your human heart, not with your master's ears ..." She looked at him expectantly and added softly, "I know there is a human heart beneath that granite."

He traced his thumb over her knuckles and smiled. "Aye, though it's had little exercise before you arrived in Milton." She blushed and averted her eyes in that bewitching way of hers and John felt for the first time since she had pulled her arm from his that there was still hope for the future.

"So you'll speak to Nicholas?" She asked expectantly.

"Yes," he sighed and pulled her hand back into the crook of his arm.

"Good," she replied and directed him down the street. It wasn't until they were in motion again that their current situation came crashing back to him. They were on a residential street of moderate traffic in Milton. Martha was trailing behind them watching as if she would commit every moment to her memory. Women were staring down at them through their parlor windows as his mother was wont to do, some shop keepers had halted their progress down the street and were unabashedly watching their dispute, and — to his horror — Miss Collingbrook was walking toward them with a determined smirk and her maid trailing behind.

Aware of their audience, he leaned closer to Margaret's ear. "I fear we're in for another confrontation, this one with less satisfactory results." He said softly.

Margaret managed no more than a confused "hmm?" before Miss Collingbrook bore down on them.

"Mr. Thornton! How delightful! What brings you to our neighborhood?" She simpered, as if he'd intentionally thrown himself in her path. Was the woman blind or daft to be openly flirting with him while he was walking out with his future wife?

"Miss Hale, actually. I've given her leave to direct our walk today and I paid little heed to our direction as my mind was more agreeably engaged." He smiled down on Margaret, then looked up to see Miss Collingbrook's sickly sweet smile had turned sour. "Miss Collingbrook, this is Miss Hale." Miss Collingbrook gave the slightest nod in their direction, still aimed closer to John than Margaret. "My dear, this is Miss Collingbrook." Margaret gave a demure curtsy, full of elegant grace even in the face of such evident hostility.

Miss Collingbrook looked as if she'd gladly detain them all afternoon if it spoiled their solitude, but John had no patience for the silly girl and quickly extricated them from the conversation. "I am sorry for the intrusion," he said once they were out of hearing range.

"While your mother did once inform me that you were sought after by all of the young ladies of Milton, I confess I did not expect to be accosted by them in public." Margaret replied sarcastically.

"As I care only for one young lady's good opinion," he said with a tender look in her direction, "you have little to fear from their silliness." She blushed and averted her eyes and John reveled in a renewed sense of progress even after their quarrel. They walked for some time in contented silence.

Margaret turned them down another street and the buildings suddenly seemed much closer. They were still drawing the attention of the people on the street, but he noticed that their audience had shifted. The eyes turned in their direction now were those of mill hands and domestic servants milling about on their day of rest. His instinct was that Margaret had simply ambled into the wrong area of town while they were walking, but her stride was confident and she navigated the streets with an ease bred from familiarity. They passed the Golden Dragon pub and John felt a sense of foreboding. "Margaret, where are you taking us?"

"You agreed to meet with Nicholas Higgins," she replied.

"Yes, but ..." John looked uneasily around at the inquisitive faces, "to come to his home on a Sunday afternoon..."

Margaret gave him a contrite smile as she took the second turn to the left onto Frances Street through a narrow passage between buildings. "I feared that between his pride and reluctance to see you, and your busy schedule, you might never come to the point." He looked around and felt like an intruder. He saw many of these people daily at the mill, they were his employees, there was a set structure and he was at the top of it. Here they were at home and he was the interloper. Here he could see the squalor that they lived in, the hunger in the children's eyes. Seeing his apprehension, Margaret squeezed his arm and said softly, "I'm sorry. We could pass through this street and be on our way. We do not need to stop today."

"No, we are here. I've made up my mind to hear Higgins out and I'm not one to tarry once a decision is made." Margaret smiled up at him and approached the door to number nine.

A large rough man opened the door and John felt the urge to shield Margaret bodily. Before he could act on this impulse, however, Margaret greeted him for all the world as if this were a typical morning visit. "Hello Nicholas, are you alone today? Where is Mary?"

Higgins' eyes had fallen on John and remained set in a suspicious squint, but he answered Margaret's inquiries curtly "Hoo's gone fustian-cutting."

"Nicholas, this is Mr. Thornton," she began.

Higgins cut her off with a gruff: "I know who he is." John chaffed at the harsh tone directed toward Margaret, whose only purpose here was to aid the man in gaining a job.

"Yes, of course. Mr. Thornton, this is Nicholas Higgins," she completed the introduction and John gave the smallest possible nod in acknowledgment.

"Nicholas, as you informed us yesterday that you were unable to speak to Mr. Thornton himself on your previous visit to Marlborough Mills, I thought I might take the opportunity to stop by today on our walk." She looked hopefully between the two men, who were silently sizing each other up. In the face of this charged silence, Margaret merely added: "I'll just step over to check in on Mrs. Boucher and the children while you speak." Then she was gone in a rustle of skirts and knocking on a door down the street.

Higgins opened the door wider and John stepped into the small room. "Hoo's direct, I grant yo'. But meddling 'twixt master and man is liker meddling 'twixt husband and wife than aught else: it takes a deal o' wisdom for to do ony good," Higgins said with a wry smile.

"True, but Miss Hale is far wiser than most give her credit for," John replied fondly. Turning to Higgins, he turned his mind to business. "Now, I hear you are looking for work."

"It's for to keep th' widow and childer of a man who was drove mad by them knobsticks o' yourn; put out of his place by a Paddy that did na know weft fro' warp. Hamper will speak to my being a good hand."

"I've a notion you'd better not send me to Hamper to ask for a character, my man. I might hear more than you'd like."

"I'd take th' risk. Worst they could say of me is, that I did what I thought best, even to my own wrong."

"Yes. About that. I'm willing to hear you out, but I'd need some assurance that you won't be stirring up trouble at my mill."

"I'd promise yo', measter, I'd not speak a word as could do harm, if so be yo' did right by us; and I'd promise more: I'd promise that when I seed yo' going wrong, and acting unfair, I'd speak to yo' in private first; and that would be a fair warning. If yo' and I did na agree in our opinion o' your conduct, yo' might turn me off at an hour's notice."

"And you think you're qualified to tell me how to run _my_ mill?" John asked incredulously, fighting down the urge to deny him outright. But he knew if he did that he'd have to face Margaret's disappointment. He'd agreed to give Higgins a fair hearing.

"Do yo' think yo'r qualified to deal wi' the problems 'twixt th' knobsticks an' t'other hands?" John raised his eyebrows in surprise, he was unaware that issues at the mill were such common knowledge. "Th' men talk. Paddy's been makin' mischief in your mill wi'out training an' yo'r ol' Milton hands don' trust them nor yo' for hirin' them. But they _do_ trust me."

"And so it follows that I should trust you?" John spat, "Upon my word, you don't think small beer of yourself! Hamper has had a loss of you. How came he to let you and your wisdom go?"

"Well, we parted wi' mutual dissatisfaction," Higgins replied with a smirk. "We don' have to trust each other. "I would na ha' troubled yo', but that I were bid to by one as seemed to think yo'd getten some soft place in yo'r heart. Unless Hoo were mistook, and I were misled I reckon we ought ta get on well enough."

John mulled this concept over. Margaret trusted this man, he trusted Margaret. Furthermore, as Higgins himself suggested, John had the power to turn the man off at the first sight of trouble. If he was diligent, he had very little to loose and much to gain. John nodded and extended his hand. "Will you take work with me?"

Higgins' face screwed up in distaste, "work's work to such as me. So, measter, I'll come; and what's more, I thank yo'; and that's a deal fro' me," he said as he shook John's hand.

"And this is a deal from me," said Mr. Thornton, giving Higgins's hand a good grip. "Now mind you come sharp to your time," continued he, resuming the master. "I'll have no laggards at my mill. What fines we have, we keep pretty sharply. And the first time I catch you making mischief, off you go. So now you know where you are."

Higgins bit his lip and shook his head as if in an effort to curb his tongue. After a moment he said, "Well, I reckon we best rescue Miss Margaret from th' childer."

When they exited the house, Margaret was outside resting a baby on her hip watching the older children play tag. The sight of Margaret with a babe in her arms threatened to overpower him with longing. She looked up as they approached and gave him an expectant smile. He nodded and her smile turned radiant. She passed the children off to Higgins, slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, and they made their retreat. When they were once again walking on the larger well-kept thoroughfares of Milton, Margaret said in a tender voice, "Thank you John." His heart melted at her use of his name and he found himself unequal to a response further than a heartfelt smile and clasping his free hand over hers.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: Tempis Fugit**

The weeks passed and the season changed. John and Margaret saw each other nearly daily. He visited Crampton whenever his schedule would allow it. John resumed his lessons with Mr. Hale two days a week. Margaret took to sitting in and sharing John's copy of the text, allowing for the occasional brush of hands or knees. On other days they sat in the parlor and more often than not, the kind old gentleman would find small excuses to leave them alone for a few stolen moments of privacy. In her turn, Mrs. Thornton invited the Hales to family dinners. Fanny cajoled Margaret into playing the piano for them — she instantly regretted it when Margaret's skill surpassed hers, but was mollified when Margaret offered to practice duets with her.

In the midst of all of this, Sunday strolls had become the highlight of their weeks. They could spend hours rambling about Milton in low, private conversation. The bitter weather of Milton in January, however, had forced them to pass their Sunday afternoons indoors in the stifling company of their families. Three weeks had passed in this manner when Margaret intercepted John at the door one Sunday.

"John, I know you've just braved the weather to walk here, but would you mind terribly if we walked out today?" She looked at him hopefully, then lowered her eyes and blushed.

"It is terribly cold today, I should hate for you to fall ill my dear," he replied, torn between the lure of a warm fireplace and the prospect of privacy with Margaret.

"I promise I shall bundle up warmly with my coat and shawls," she glanced around the hallway, then added in a low voice, "I've missed speaking freely with you."

He took both of her hands in his, comforted by her desire to spend time with him, and said, "very well, a short walk it is."

After a brief bustle over outer garments, John and Margaret were off down the street followed by a disgruntled and cold Martha. Margaret had both of her hands around his arm in a possessive gesture that took the chill out of the air. He placed his hand over hers to keep them warm and to feel that much more connected to her.

"John," Margaret began, then seemed to lose her courage.

"Yes, my dear?"

"I ... I know it is not my place ..." she paused again and studied the passing pavement. John was intrigued, she had at first been hesitant to offer advice about the Mill, but they had long since overcome that fear. What could she have to say that was not her place? "... we have been courting for nearly four months."

He sighed, "Yes, the happiest months of my life."

"Truly?" She smiled up at him.

"Can you doubt it?"

Her brow furrowed and she looked down again. "John, I grow weary of seeing you for only an hour in company with our families present each day. I wish there were not three miles separating us. I wish we could see each other even on days you have pressing engagements. I wish we could speak privately without running the risk of frostbite. I wish for ... more."

"I know, Margaret, so do I. But there is little to be done." John replied soothingly.

She looked up at him with that spark of battle in her eye that had so defined their early relationship. "There is one rather obvious solution." But the fight seemed to drain away to insecurity and she added in a voice so quiet he had to strain to hear it, "unless you are no longer sure..."

"Margaret!" John froze and turned her to face him, unable to allow her to think he'd changed his mind. "Margaret, I have never been more sure of anything in my life than I am about marrying you!"

"Then why are we _still_ courting?" She asked regaining her combative tone.

"I ... you ..." he stuttered, unsure how it had come to pass that she was yelling at him for not having proposed in a timely manner. "You needed time for your feelings to grow. I did not want you feeling obliged to accept for security or gratitude."

"John! I've told you things I've never told another soul, I've called you by your given name for months, I light up when you enter a room, I think about you constantly in your absence, you see me daily!" She shouted, her cheeks were rosy from cold and indignation and her breath plumed out in puffs of condensation as she punctuated each point. "How could you not know that I love you!"

Even shouted in frustration those three words from Margaret were the sweetest he had ever heard. For a moment he just stood there grinning at her. "You ... never said," he eventually replied.

"Because I couldn't! Society does not permit a woman to speak of her feelings until she is engaged! I cannot imagine what my mother would say to this exchange, let alone my Aunt, or — heaven forbid — _your_ mother!"

John let out a joyful laugh — the kind he didn't think himself capable of before Margaret came into his life — and took both of her hands in his. "Margaret Hale, I love you more than words can express, will you please do me the great honor of becoming my wife at last?"

"At long last," Margaret replied saucily and took a step closer, "yes!" John was being pulled in by the soft light shining in her expressive eyes, and would have forgotten himself entirely and kissed her were it not for the sound of applause breaking his attention. Looking around, he recalled that they were in the street, in full view of a row of shops. They had drawn quite the crowd with their strange, wild, combative engagement. A crowd of Milton gossips who had been feeding their habit on the courtship of the handsome mill owner and the fiery southern lady and were now thrilled to have witnessed the dramatic conclusion first hand.

Margaret hid her face against John's shoulder in embarrassment, and John took a moment to shoot a self-satisfied grin at their audience over her head. They were engaged, and by nightfall everyone in Milton would know. He propelled Margaret forward, though she did not look up until they had placed several blocks between them and their spectators.

"I suppose my plan of walking to gain privacy rather backfired," she laughed.

"Yes, I'm afraid that plan requires hushed voices."

"Oh dear! I'm afraid I nearly lost my temper, I am sorry."

"It is a strange notion of propriety, to _shout_ about feelings society prevented you from _speaking_ of," John laughed. "I am sorry it took such extreme measures for me to come to the point at last. But given the results of my first proposal ..." he sighed, "... I did not trust myself to judge your feelings."

"Yes, after I was so brutal in my previous refusal, I can see why you were timid." She gave a small gasp, "Oh! Now all of your memories of proposing to me shall be tainted by me yelling at you!"

John squeezed her hand. "You my yell at me as much as you choose, my love, so long as it ends with a declaration of love. That is a memory I shall always cherish."

"I do love you," she said softly, "I'm sorry that the first time I said it was in anger."

"It is rather fitting of our relationship. Every milestone we've had was borne from conflict of some sort. Nearly the whole first year of our acquaintance was a string of arguments and disagreements. Then it took a riot and an injury for me to even see my love for what it was, let alone declare it to you — and if you'll recall I shouted my first declaration of love as well in the midst of the ensuing argument. Had I not observed the fight between Frederick and Leonards, I would have continued thinking the worst of you and you may never have trusted me. It was the violence of your feelings after the aborted inquest that led me to state my intentions and eventually request a courtship. And after all of that, is it any wonder that you had to resort to yelling before I could believe that such a magnificent creature as you could ever return my feelings?"

"I suppose," Margaret conceded. After a moment, her laughter tinkled on the still winter air. "Only think what that shall mean for our wedding day — a battle between my aunt and your mother, perhaps? Or the birth of our children?"

John stopped short at the idea of Margaret bearing his children — and the necessary steps between this milestone and that — and pulled Margaret into his arms. Overcome by emotion and desire he lowered his lips slowly to hers. When Martha discretely began coughing behind them he rested his head on her forehead, impervious to the January cold around them. In a low voice deep with longing he said: "I greatly anticipate a good deal of shouting and declarations of love on that occasion," trailing a line of kisses to her ear, he whispered: "as well as in the process of making said children. I imagine our marriage will never fall short on passion."

 **Author's Note:** I can't imagine a world where John Thornton and Margaret Hale don't argue! So now for the eternal question: epilogue or no? There's still a lot of N&S plot that I could touch on, but I don't know if it's necessary to this story. What do you guys think? Would you like more?

I would also like to thank all of you for reading this short little what-if. I appreciate all reviews, favs, and follows :)


	8. Chapter 8

A Wedding At Last

Notes: Alright, so I set out to write an epilogue and it got a bit out of control. So, you get an extra chapter _and_ and epilogue! P.S. You guys asked for an epilogue with full knowledge of the remaining plot points of N&S. Get ready for a bit of a bumpy ride ... with a HEA I promise

For all of Margaret and John's impatience to marry and begin their lives together, they were forced to endure a full two months of engagement before the blessed event could occur. Between Mrs. Thornton's insistence on a wedding fitting of John's station, and the remainder of Margaret's six months of full mourning for her mother, they simply could not set an earlier date.

The date was merely the first of many aspects of the wedding that the couple found themselves required to compromise on. On their cold walk back to Crampton on the day of their engagement, Margaret described her girlhood fancy of an ideal wedding to John as a simple affair involving her favorite gown, a summer's day, a tree-lined walk, a minimum of bridesmaids, and _no_ wedding breakfast. John would have gladly granted all of her wishes save one, he would not wait for a summer day.

In the end, she was required — both by Mrs. Thornton and Fanny's insistence and by the constraints of mourning attire — to have a new gown made up of dove gray satin for the occasion. The March morning of their wedding dawned with a spattering of frozen rain that put any walk in her wedding finery out of the question. Her bridesmaids she was thankfully able to limit to Fanny and her cousin Edith — recently returned from Corfu, but Mother would not budge on the wedding breakfast. She insisted that if Margaret was to take her place as John's wife, she must submit to a grand breakfast for the other masters and their families.

Although Margaret had lived in Milton for some time, Mrs. Thornton was insistent that the breakfast would be her first introduction to Milton society as someone worthy of note. John, of course, thought this was ridiculous as Milton society had done little else other than take note of Margaret since that night at the Outwood station. Although his mother had managed to surpass her habitually superb skills as a hostess — aware perhaps that this would be her final event as sole mistress of Marlborough Mills — John found the affair tiresome at best. He had spent long hours mired in the duties of a host when all he wanted to do was whisk Margaret away to some secluded spot and enjoy his wife's company. Alone. Instead he found himself having the same conversations about business and politics with the same people as he could any given day at the club.

Family stress, of course, far outweighed the tedium of their guests. The quarrel between Mother and her aunt that Margaret prophesied manifested in the form of bickering and snide comments beginning the moment that grand lady arrived for a family dinner at Marlborough Mills the evening prior to the wedding and continued through the celebrations. The shouting, thankfully, they postponed until after all but family had left the house after the wedding breakfast. Mrs. Shaw took as vehement a dislike as it was possible for one of her gentle nature to do, against Milton. It was noisy, and smoky, and the poor people whom she saw in the streets were dirty, and the rich ladies over-dressed, and not a man that she saw, high or low, had his clothes made to fit him. On her part, Mother saw in Mrs. Shaw all of the defects of character that rankled her about Margaret but pushed to the extreme. She was a uselessly fine woman, all fashion and no substance, who waltzed in expecting to be attended to as a queen among paupers.

Small barbs along these lines had been flying between the two matrons throughout the day, but it wasn't until they were alone as a family party that the heart of the discord came out. Mrs. Shaw did not think John was a suitable husband for Margaret, and Mother's opinions about Margaret were not far removed. The ladies shouted and blustered, Mr. Hale tried ineffectually to rationalize with them, Edith wept, Captain Lennox did little more than hold his wife, and Fanny eagerly attended to the argument with glee — no doubt ready to relay the proceedings to her friends. Margaret once again found need to shout that she loved him, John's heart again soared at such an impassioned declaration and he joined the fray by shouting his own love for Margaret. While this tactic worked to effectively end quarrels between the lovers, it proved to have little effect on the aggrieved matrons. In the end, John had to call upon all of his experience in arbitration as a magistrate and businessman to calm the combatants.

Before the party broke up, Mr. Hale made one last attempt at festivity in an impassioned toast to his daughter and her bridegroom, wishing them all of the joy, happiness, and love he himself had found with his dearest Maria. Margaret, thankfully, was too moved by his speech and occupied with hugging her father to notice the daggers Mother glared at him or the veiled accusation that Mrs. Shaw laid that his _dear Maria_ would still be with us had he not uprooted them all to Milton. John felt bad for Mr. Hale as he bid the group a good evening because it was now left to his poor father-in-law to play host to that vile woman alone.

The day had been long and weary. It was full of compromises to propriety, society, and family and John could not help but reflect bitterly that none were entirely satisfied with the effect. It wasn't until the door to his bedchamber shut that that bitterness ebbed away into joy. In fact it was no longer _his_ bedchamber but _theirs._ There were small changes that were noticeable to the eye of someone who had retired here alone every evening for years — the furniture had been shifted to accommodate her mother's dressing table, some new personal effects were scattered about the room, there was a dressing screen in the corner that he hoped would see little use — but the largest change, the change that sent his pulse racing, was his wife, quietly seated at the dressing table brushing out her hair. Her hand stilled as he entered and she met his eyes in the mirror and smiled.

That smile was everything to him. All of the troubles and frustrations of the day were entirely worth it because here, now, and forever she was his wife. Had he seen his own responding smile in the mirror he may have been astonished by the transformation it gave his face, but he could not look away from Margaret's radiant smile. He drew closer without breaking eye contact in the mirror and placed his hands on her shoulders, lightly brushing his thumbs across the delicate skin of her neck. "When I first saw you, I could not imagine a more superb woman than Margaret Hale," he began in a husky whisper and her smile widened, "but you, Margaret _Thornton_ are the most beautiful creature I have ever beheld." He leaned down and dropped a kiss into her loose hair. She shifted in his arms to face him.

"I'm afraid you were much quicker to find my merits than I was to see yours. I recall reporting to my mother after that first meeting that you were neither exactly plain, nor yet handsome," she said apologetically.

John smiled down at her, "that's a far step above the great rough fellow, with not a grace or a refinement I felt myself to be in your presence."

"No! Never that," Margaret said in reproach, then in a soft sultry voice that he knew would be forever reserved for himself she added, "and now I cannot imagine anyone more handsome, noble, or dear to me."

John was overcome and left with no recourse but to pull her up into his arms and kiss her passionately. He felt the same momentary thrill of illicit pleasure that had struck him with every stolen kiss during their engagement before he recalled that they were lawfully married, joined as man and wife and no one could condemn him for his current actions. Gradually the kiss subdued to soft tender kisses until at last he clasped her to his chest and held her tight. "I love you," he whispered into her hair.

"I love you too," she replied softly into his cravat. After a moment, she said in a tremulous voice, "I am sorry ... about my aunt ..."

"Hush, love," he said softly and trailed his hand up and down her back reverently, "neither of us are responsible for the words or actions of our family today, though I will have some strong words with my mother about the respect she owes you."

Margaret leaned back slightly to look up into his eyes, " _she_ at least has known me long enough to form such a decided opinion." John began to protest, but Margaret quelled him with a look and a hand on his chest. "We both know that I am not blameless for your mother's opinion of me. The injustice of my aunt's ire is that she does not know you, she has made a hasty and prejudiced judgment against you and all of Milton ..." Margaret took a shaky breath and buried her head in his neck "... much as I was guilty of when we first moved here."

John continued to caress her back as he responded soothingly, "Margaret, am I not guilty of my own early hasty judgments? I will admit that when we first met I perhaps thought you haughty and elegant and needlessly fine; much as my mother accused you of today — although I both admired and resented those same attributes. And when I first saw you with Frederick that night ... I will not insult you by repeating the hasty conclusions I jumped to." He felt rather than heard Margaret's responding gasp and continued on before she could dwell farther on that. "The point is, none of us are without fault but we've both grown in sentiment and understanding since then. You have made me a better man, Margaret, and I fully expect that you shall continue to do so for the rest of my life." He could have said more, could have expounded at length on Margaret's virtues, but Margaret slid her hands to his neck, raised herself on her tiptoes, and kissed him tenderly. In the past she had always enjoyed his kisses, but this was the first time she had actively kissed him and his heart stuttered.

This kiss took on a tenor apart from their previous kisses. It was in turns languorous, scorching, achingly tender, and passionate. Their hands roamed, clutched, caressed, and explored. He paused the kiss only long enough to look searchingly in her eyes as he toyed with the first of the buttons along her back. She nodded her agreement and her own hands set to work on his cravat. A lifetime later — or was it the blink of an eye? — he was leading his Margaret to their marriage bed; holding her in his arms; worshiping her with his body.

Hours later John lay awake in bed. Margaret's sleeping form was pressed against the length of his side, flesh on flesh, warming him with her soothing presence. Some small irrational part of him was afraid to fall asleep lest he wake up to find it all a dream. He had spent countless nights dreaming of this — Margaret, soft and willing in his arms, in his bed, in his life — and now that she was here he could scarce believe it was real. And so there he lay, basking in this new sense of pure happiness, of heartfelt delight, of pure and total connection to another human being.

He could not help but laugh at himself for such fanciful notions. He'd had little use for the poetic in his daily life, only Margaret had the power to bring out such romantic drivel as he would have labeled it not two years prior. The low rumble of his laughter must have roused Margaret, as she stirred and shifted more weight onto him. Her right arm resettled itself across his chest and her delicate taper fingers idly caressed his arm. She sighed contentedly and settled again into peaceful slumber. He kissed the top of her head where it rested on his shoulder and breathed in her scent. _This is real,_ he thought to himself as he finally drifted off to sleep in the comforting embrace of his wife.


	9. Chapter 9

Their first weeks as man and wife were blissfully calm. In order to give them time to adjust to married life, Mrs. Thornton and Fanny had taken themselves off a-visiting with some friends of Fanny's who lived near Hayleigh. Mr. Hale had spent some time deliberating on what his situation would be following the wedding. John and Margaret had, of course, invited him to move to Marlborough Mills with them, not wanting him to be alone with his macabre memories, but he too was keen on giving the newlyweds some space just after the wedding. Mr. Bell had devised the perfect solution. Plans were already in the works for a reunion of their Oxford friends in April, and so he proposed that he would visit Milton for the wedding, and Mr. Hale would accompany him back to Oxford a week ahead of the reunion. And so John and Margaret found themselves blissfully free of family for a time.

As the mill had never fully recovered from the upset of the riot, John could ill afford the luxury of a honeymoon, but they quickly fell into a routine. Margaret would wake with John and accompany him to breakfast before he left for the mill. Most days they ate their mid-day meal together — if possible, he would return home and join her in the dining room, if he was unable, Margaret would pack the luncheon away and carry it to his office. She rarely saw him again before dinner, but their evenings were spent in blissful contentment.

One day, John had a late afternoon meeting canceled at the last minute. Having cleared his schedule and finding himself free, he took the rare liberty of returning home early to see his wife. He entered the parlor where she greeted him every night only to find it empty. Margaret was likewise not to be found in the dining parlor, study, or in their chambers. He began to give way to disappointment that she had gone out, though he could not blame her as he had given her no notice that he would be early. Resigned to her absence, he began to make his way back through the house to return to work when he heard soft music coming from the music room. Not the loud clanging practice chords or lively dance music that Fanny preferred, but a plaintive melancholy tune.

He leaned against the doorway for a moment, soaking in her beauty, elegance, and music. At length, she allowed her hands to still and the music to taper off, releasing a shuddering sigh. He quickly strode to her side and saw a look of deep sorrow on her face. "Margaret, love? Are you well?" He asked, a hint of panic in his voice.

She started slightly then turned to him, "Oh, John! You're home early!" She gave him a contrite smile before schooling her features back into their habitual form.

"Margaret, are you unhappy?" He asked again, his own insecurities providing reasons for her sorrow. "Have I neglected you? I am sorry that you must spend such long solitary hours of the day in this large and unfamiliar house ..."

"John," Margaret interrupted him, laying a hand on his cheek, "I am very happy in this house, and with your attentions. I even savor the solitude."

"You did not appear happy a moment ago," he said sadly.

"It is only Mama. Although you provided me with comfort and solace through my period of mourning, your visits were always agonizingly brief in the long weary hours of the day, and I did not wish to waste them on further grief. The balance of my time for so many months has been spent bolstering my father during _his_ grief. It's only now that he is away that I have felt how great and long had been the pressure on my time and spirits. It's astonishing, almost stunning, to feel myself so much at liberty; no one depending on me for cheering care, if not for positive happiness; no invalid to plan and think for; I might be idle, and silent, and forgetful, — and what seems worth more than all the other privileges — I might be unhappy if I like."

John's heart again broke for her and he pulled her into his embrace. "Of course my love, you must have time to mourn. I apologize if I have imposed on you."

Her short laugh surprised him at such a moment. "John, of course you've not imposed. I love you, and your love has supported me through this dark time." John held her close for several moments, unsure what to say to support her but wishing to comfort her all the same.

He looked around the room. It was clearly Fanny's domain with it's cheerful pink wallpapers, abundance of looking glasses, and figurines of dancing ladies and gentlemen arranged on the mantle, a stark contrast to the austere drawing room of silver, gray, and black that it connected to through double doors. This was probably the least suited room in the house for mournful reflection. Allowing his curiosity to get the better of him, he asked her what drew her here of all places. She gave him a mischievous look, "I did not wish the servants to assume I was unhappy in our marriage, so I wanted to grieve privately. Our chambers are so full of ..." she paused and blushed "... other memories that it did not feel appropriate for solemn reflection. But I have noticed that the servants tend to give this room wide berth in their daily routine."

John laughed, "aye, I believe Fanny's playing has frightened away many a spectator. In spite of her many hours of practice."

"At least it has served me well," Margaret laughed. "And it has allowed me to play again, in that indolent unstructured way that so infuriated my piano master."

John kissed her hand as he assisted her back onto the piano bench, "well, you ought to enjoy it now, as Fanny will give you little access to the piano once she returns." Margaret sat and continued playing whatever songs from her memory caught her fancy as her husband sat nearby entranced by her grace and beauty at the instrument. John was pleased to note that by the time dinner was ready, she had shifted away from the melancholy to more spirited tunes.

* * *

Two weeks after their marriage, his mother and sister returned from their visit. Fanny's monopoly on the piano, it seemed would be short lived as she returned home bursting with the news of an engagement of her own. Mr. Watson was her friend's uncle and they had been much in company over the visit. He was wealthy, well set up, and in full possession of his own Mills and two homes — one in Milton and the other near Hayleigh. She insisted that it was a good match, even if he was a touch gray. John was on friendly terms with the fellow, and knew there was no talking Fanny out of the match even if the man was old enough to be her father and played fast and loose with speculation. Nonetheless, he had family money backing his mills and Fanny would be well provided for.

A truly affectionate son and brother in his own way, John welcomed back his family even while lamenting the loss of privacy for himself and Margaret. Their evenings were now spent in company with Mother and Fanny. The latter shattered their peace with incessant chatter over wedding clothes — a fact which made John even more grateful for the modest needs of his own bride — and the former shattered Margaret's peace with a rigorous household schedule of tasks and her ongoing disapproval of Margaret's behavior.

* * *

Three weeks after their marriage, John was obliged to make a trip to Havre to sort out the rising price of cotton. Loathe as he was to leave his wife, it would be but a short trip and neither saw any immediate need for her to make the journey with him. On his return trip, he was allowing his mind to roam from the newspaper in his hands to the anticipated reunion with his wife when he was shocked out of his reverie by a loud exclamation of: "Why, Thornton! is that you?" He had hardly recognized the man as Mr. Bell before his hand was vehemently grasped then quickly released as his landlord wiped tears from his eyes. Dread settled in his stomach.

"I'm going to Milton, bound on a melancholy errand. Going to break to Hale's daughter the news of his sudden death!"

"Death! Mr. Hale dead!"

"Ay; I keep saying it to myself, "Hale is dead!" but it doesn't make it any the more real. Hale is dead for all that. He went to bed well, to all appearance, last night, and was quite cold this morning when my servant went to call him."

"My poor Margaret!" John's head was reeling and his eyes beginning to pool. His dear friend and father-in-law was dead, and his wife ... Margaret had faced so much suffering between her brother's exile and her mother's death, and now her father! How could she bear it.

Yes! I am going to tell her. Poor fellow! how full his thoughts were of her all last night! Good God! Last night only. And how immeasurably distant he is now! How he expounded last night on his relief that she was well settled. You must take care of her Thornton, for she is as dear to me if she had been my own child."

John bristled slightly at his implication, "there is nothing more important to me than my wife's health and happiness."

Mr. Bell looked at him shrewdly, and nodded. "Yes, I know. I believe I knew even before the tittle tattle of Milton began that you loved our Margaret. So much the better, I need not fear her being pursued by a fortune hunter — or that cleaver Lennox!"

"What!?" John feared the old man had quite lost his mind in his grief. Margaret had no fortune to hunt — not that it had been any deterrent to his affections — and wasn't Lennox her cousin's husband?

"Why, she'll have my money at my death, did you not know? No, of course not, I only told Hale last night." John put the information of Margaret's improved prospects aside for the moment to focus on the needs of the moment. As much of the burden that could be lifted from Margaret must be done. The funeral must be planned, the Crampton house packed and such items as Margaret did not wish to keep auctioned off, the rest transported to Marlborough Mills.

He tried not to think of the calamity averted. Had they not already married before Mr. Hale's death, Margaret would be in her Aunt Shaw's protection. Her aunt who hates Milton, it's climate, it's people, and especially him as their representative in her mind. His darling Margaret might have been snatched away to the glitter and ease of London and he powerless to stop it. She would have been at the mercy of relatives who did not care for her father and cared for her only as far as it suited their own interests. He would have been unable to comfort her, provide her solace. He unsuccessfully attempted to keep the tears at bay, but felt secure in the knowledge that Mr. Bell had as tenuous a hold on his own emotions.

The remainder of the train ride and the carriage ride to Marlborough Mills passed primarily in silence, broken only by the occasional discussion of funeral preparations. As they pulled into the mill yard, he saw her at the drawing room window awaiting his return. She beamed down at him as he stepped down, but he then had to look back to Mr. Bell and she saw him alight; she guessed the truth with an instinctive flash. She stood in the middle of the drawing-room, as if arrested in her first impulse to rush downstairs, and as if by the same restraining thought she had been turned to stone; so white and immoveable was she.

They hurried up to the drawing-room, in John's urgency to reach his wife's side he easily outpaced his companion. He drew her into his arms, scarcely registering the worried inquiries from his mother and sister. Even as she clung to him in dreadful anticipation of what was to come, Margaret scarcely looked at him, Her eyes were focused on Mr. Bell's entry behind him.

"Oh! don't tell me! I know it from your face! You would have sent — you would not have left him — if he were alive! Oh papa, papa!" At Mr. Bell's tortured nod Margaret gave way to the shock of the news and collapsed into John's waiting arms. He carried her to the nearest armchair and sat cradling her limp form against his chest. He could hear Mr. Bell's halting explanation of Mr. Hale's death, Mother's succinct inquiries as to preparations and lodging for Mr. Bell, and Fanny's hysterics — no doubt brought on by Margaret's own faint. But he paid little heed to any of this, his attention was focused solely on his wife. A single tear trailing down her cheek was the first sign of consciousness, followed by a contraction of her brows in agony. He grasped her tighter and whispered words of love and comfort. She threw her arms about him and latched on as if she could absorb his strength. He wished to God she could.

* * *

After her initial faint, Margaret was slow to come back to herself over the next days. The day after she heard the news, John wished to remain with her, but he had responsibilities that required his attention. He settled her in the sitting room with Dixon and Mr. Bell sitting sentinel should she require anything. He was dismayed on his return to find her lying as still on that sofa as if it were an altar-tomb, and she the stone statue on it. Dixon and Mr. Bell had tried to rouse her, to tempt her to eat, but she hadn't responded. John again picked her up and sat himself on the sofa cradling her, she curled into him and he was able to coax her into drinking some tea at the least. Her reaction to her father's death was far more visceral than it had been to her mother's. She had no father and brother to bolster, no household to uphold. Her husband was there to support her and her mother-in-law to see to the house. She had been denied her grief for one parent for the benefit of the other and now she grieved for both as one.

The funeral was held in Oxford, Margaret wished to attend the funeral and John readily agreed to accompany her thither. Fanny put up a fuss about proprieties and unladylike behavior, but Mother surprised him in her agreement with Margaret. She was a widow, no stranger to death, and saw no reason to bar women from such occasions. By the time of the funeral, she was able to endure the train ride sitting white, motionless, speechless, tearless, but with her hand firmly encased in her husband's.

The funeral seemed to do her good. It was as if she had suspended her animation as long as she could suspend her belief. Once she was able to see the body, make her peace, and say goodbye, her appetite and vigor was gradually restored to her.

* * *

While Margaret was grieving for her father, Marlborough Mills continued to sink under the blows from the strike. While they had no further quality issues, they remained behind in their orders and seemed unlikely to catch up. The global rise in the cost of cotton caused mischief for their buyers as well, who were unable to pay their bills on time. For a while, John attempted to shield his wife from the harsh reality of their situation because he did not wish to add to her burdens. But as her grief subsided, she began to notice the tolls of stress on him.

Unsurprisingly, John's first true indication that Margaret was returning to her own self came in the form of an argument. She urged him to confide in her about his troubles, he demurred hoping to protect her, she assumed that she was the source of his additional burden and confronted him about it, he was forced to explain ending with: "I protected you from the truth because I love you," shouted in anger. This prompted both husband and wife to first dissolve into laughter over their now familiar pattern of argument, then rationally discuss the issues at hand.

* * *

By August Margaret had regained much of her former spirits, if a bit subdued. She was an orphan, but not alone. She had her husband's love, a household to run, a sister-in-law's wedding to prepare for, and a kitchen project for the laborers to help oversee. Margaret and Mrs. Thornton had even come to a better mutual understanding after a thorough audit of the household budget in order to cut expenses under their present circumstances.

Margaret had been expecting a visit from Mr. Bell, promised and scheduled, broken and rescheduled, but was disappointed when he at length missed yet another appointed time. She had a terrible presentiment, therefore, when she received a letter posted from Oxford the following morning but not in Mr. Bell's own hand. It was a brief letter from Wallis, his servant, stating that his master had not been feeling well for some time, which had been the true reason of his putting off his journey; and that at the very time when he should have set out for Milton, he had been seized with an apoplectic fit; it was, indeed, Wallis added, the opinion of the medical men — that he could not survive the night; and more than probable, that by the time Miss Hale received this letter his poor master would be no more.

Margaret received this letter at breakfast-time, and turned very pale as she read it; then silently putting it into Mrs. Thornton's hands, she left the room. That shrewd lady, now familiar with Margaret's ways, ordered a maid to run the letter over to John's office then hail a cab. She sent Jane to pack a bag before she searched the schedule for the next train that would leave for Oxford, ordered a basket from the kitchens, and stopped in Margaret's room on her way to her own.

"I am going to Oxford. Dixon has offered to go with me, but I could have gone by myself. I must see him again. Besides, he may be better, and want some care. He has been like a father to me. Don't stop me Mrs. Thornton." Margaret said without looking up from her packing.

Mrs. Thornton let out something between a laugh and snort. "As if I could prevent anyone as headstrong as you from going where you please. There is a train in half-an-hour, I've already sent for a cab, so we should just make it."

Margaret turned to her mother in law in astonishment, "we?"

"With all due respect to Dixon, I'll not have my daughter-in-law rushing about the country with only a servant as a companion in your condition and we both know John can't be spared at the mill just now." Dixon momentarily stopped her packing in indignation.

Margaret paled and placed a hand on her stomach, "how?"

"I've had two myself you know. You've eaten nothing for breakfast aside from tea for all of a week but increased your mid-day meal. You've lived beside a mill for months without problems but suddenly the smell of woad bothers you, and I saw Dr. Donaldson leaving the mill gates on Tuesday when I returned from tea with Mrs. Slickson. Now, Dixon, if you're ready, Jane should be just about done with my bag." The punctual maid stopped in the hallway as if on cue leaving Margaret wondering if her mother-in-law had some sort of magical abilities. She silently took her bag from Dixon and followed Mrs. Thornton down the stairs.

John had just reached the entrance as they exited the house. "Oh, Margaret, I'm so sorry," he said as he pulled her into an embrace.

Mrs. Thornton checked the watch on her chatelaine and announced brusquely, "we're to Oxford, our train leaves in twenty-five minutes and if we've any hope of arriving in Oxford in time to be of any use we'd best be on it."

John looked somewhat startled, but would not delay them. "Of course, thank you Mother," he said as he helped his mother into the carriage. He pulled Margaret in for one final embrace — heedless of the hands loading carts in the yard — whispered "I love you," and helped her into the carriage.

Even with their haste, Margaret and Mrs. Thornton arrived only hear that he had died in the night. The trip was brief, but Margaret had the chance to say her goodbyes. As they had some time before the return train, Mrs. Thornton proposed a walk through the cemetery to visit Mr. Hale's grave. Later, as they sat aboard the train, silent but for the soft rustle of Mrs. Thornton's thread pulling through the linen napkin she was embroidering, Margaret looked up at her mother-in-law. "I'm sorry if I was foolish rushing all the way down to Oxford, I just..."

"It was not foolish, he's as good as family," Mrs. Thornton replied without looking up.

Margaret continued observing her mother-in-law, "Thank you for accompanying me today. I could have taken Dixon, but I appreciated your company none the less." She paused a moment, but then decided to charge on "I know that you did not approve of me as John's wife ..." She'd intended to be forceful but it came out as a question.

"I did not approve of my son's attachment to you. You did not seem worthy to me. Of course, I knew nothing about you but I didn't want to know anything about you ..." she paused and finally looked up at Margaret "... did you know that I had two sisters and a brother?" Margaret, startled at the rapid change of topic shook her head no. "There was a cholera epidemic one summer in Milton, over the course of three months I lost all three of my siblings and my mother. How father and I muddled on for the years after that is hard to say, he was a broken man. Eventually I met John's father and married. My father died when John was but a babe in arms. And of course, you know of my husband's death. I was one of four children, and before my thirty-first year my entire family had dwindled down to my two children. They became my world." For the first time ever, Margaret saw Mrs. Thornton's eyes pool with tears. "John is my rock. Until you came along I was first in his affections. His love for you threatened that. I saw you as a usurper, taking away my son from me." She grew silent and Margaret hung her head, breaking her heart for the woman beside her.

Mrs. Thornton cleared her throat and Margaret looked up to see that she had resumed her habitual calm demeanor. "I've survived a year such as you've had. A year of grief and loss. I've seen my father broken by such a year, a shadow of his former self. But you, Margaret, are a fighter, you're recovering, you're planing for your future and your happiness and your love and I respect you for that. My family had dwindled down to my two children ... but now you're here and soon there'll be a babe. So don't thank me for attending on Mr. Bell. He was as good as part of your family, and you're part of my family." Margaret reached over and pressed Mrs. Thornton's hand, tears clogging her throat and preventing her from speech.

They returned home late after their long journey. John was asleep in the drawing room, an open book resting on his lap. Margaret gently placed the book on a side table and woke him by gently running her hand through his hair — an action he had performed himself recently to judge by the state of it. "You're back," he said, his voice thick with sleep, "I didn't know if you'd return this evening."

"And yet you've waited up," Mrs. Thornton replied brusquely. Formerly Margaret would have assumed reproach in that comment, but now she recognized the tenderness and concern in it.

"With the two of you traveling alone at night?" He replied as he stood up and bushed a kiss on Margaret's cheek in greeting, "of course I've waited up."

"It's late, we all ought to seek our beds."

"Yes, goodnight Mother," John said and kissed her cheek.

"Goodnight ..." Margaret also kissed her cheek, then added shyly, "Mother."

John looked up in surprise, but Mrs. Thornton merely gave her a lopsided half smile and bade them goodnight.

* * *

"What have you done to my mother?" John asked playfully as he helped her undress. She had already given him the sad account of their visit to Mr. Bell and the pertinent information about his death and funeral and John was curious about their encounter.

"Added to her family," Margaret responded cryptically. At his upturned eyebrow, she elaborated. "We've bonded over grief. She told me of the cholera epidemic. Of her sisters and brother and mother. Of the year her family dwindled and she survived."

"She rarely speaks of it." John said thoughtfully, "I don't think she could remain as strong as she is if she dwelt on her past miseries often."

"No, I think that was her goal. To remind me of the future rather than allowing me to dwell on the pain of the last year." She moved to the vanity and sat down to brush out her hair as he began to undress himself. "We also spoke of her disapproval of me." John's hands stilled on his shirt buttons and he looked at her with a scowl.

"She had lost so many people. You were her world and I threatened to take you away, then rejected you." Margaret shrugged. John began to protest, but his wife stopped him. "When we married, she still held on to that resentment, but she has since come to realize that rather than taking you away from her I've merely added to her family. She had only two people to care for, but now there are three." She blushed fiercely at this and abruptly stopped talking. John found it odd, but attributed it to her modesty and confusion at his mother's unprecedented words of affection.

"I am glad she's finally seen your merits, my love." John said and dropped a kiss on her head. They silently continued their preparations for bed for some time.

"John," Margaret said as she finished tying off her braid. He looked up but rather than meeting his eye, she was staring sheepishly at the carpet.

"Margaret?" he mimicked.

"Soon there will be four," she said sheepishly.

Grasping back on their last thread of conversation, and having spent an evening alone with Fanny and her wedding preparations, he replied, "ah yes, Watson. Although I can hardly see _him_ calling her 'Mother,' seeing as he's all of four years her junior."

"Five," she corrected quietly, holding her hands over her stomach. "Your family is increasing at a rapid rate."

Understanding finally broke through to him and he stopped and stared at his wife. "Increasing?"

She finally looked up and nodded, smiling. "Dr. Donaldson said not to tell anyone yet as it's still early and it's my first pregnancy, but your mother figured it out on her own."

He felt a bemused smile spread across his face, "a baby!" He murmured gleefully, pulling Margaret into his arms and kissing her gently.

* * *

The following year proved far kinder to their family than the prior. Margaret, with full support of Mrs. Thornton and an experienced midwife, refused to remain abed for her confinement. Although she kept to the house, she insisted on roaming the halls of Marlborough Mills for exercise and performing her normal daily tasks. She gave birth to a beautiful, healthy daughter with jet black hair, ice-blue eyes, and a stern brow — an impressive sight on an infant. Although she was the very image of her father, she was christened Maria Elizabeth Thornton in honor of Margaret's departed mother and friend.

Mr. Bell's fortune, of course, saved Marlborough Mills. It not only allowed their expanding family to remain in their home, but elevated the Thorntons to the status of land-owners. Fortune aside, this alone allowed the business to stabilize without the burden of rent or the fear of eviction. Apart from an initial investment — which he fully repaid — John refused to use Margaret's money for the mill. The majority was placed in trust for their children, while a portion remained available for Margaret's social projects. The first of these was a school for the children of the laborers — the Boucher children being the first pupils enrolled.

As official owner of the property and an investor in the mill — a status which John insisted was Margaret's alone as it was her inheritance, whatever society and the law might say about the matter — Margaret began taking a more active interest in the daily workings of the mill. With the help of Higgins, John and Margaret continued to build a closer and more genial intercourse with the hands that ran their looms.

Notes:

And so ends this N&S AU. I usually like to end with a bit of fluff in an epilogue, but this one turned out a bit heavy because there were too many plot points I wanted to tie up. Sorry, but hey, campy confusion about birth announcements b/c Victorians never just come out and say "I'm pregnant." I also wanted to round out Mrs. Thornton a bit and make her more likable, so she gets an even more tragic backstory.

I've got ideas for several other stories floating around in my head, but I haven't started writing anything yet. So I figured I'd poll the audience to see if you all have any preference:

1.) _Wives and Daughters,_ Elizabeth Geskell (Molly is stuck in the quarantine at Hamley Hall when little Osborne gets scarlet fever, forcing her and Roger together rather than apart just before he has to leave again)

2.) _Mansfield Park,_ Jane Austen (Fanny befriends the new curate hired by Dr. Grant just when Edmond is falling under the sway of Mary Crawford. Fanny gains more autonomy, Edmond is more jealous of a friend and spiritual advisor than he is of Henry Crawford as a lover)

3.) _Persuasion,_ Jane Austen (The Admiral and Mrs. Croft are in a gig accident and Anne saves the day, coincidentally throwing her in Frederick's path)

4.) _Pride and Prejudice,_ Jane Austen (Mary is visiting with the Darcys when Lady Catherine dies. She meets and befriends Anne DeBurgh. Anne, now an independent woman able to make her own choices, asks Mary to be her companion. Spinsters by choice - spinsters in love - Mary/Anne DeBurgh)


End file.
